-1The Fourth Realm 2:
--Prophecy of Old--
A fanfic taking place in the Realms of the Blood, created by
Anne Bishop whom I worship and pay tribute to every day.
Just kidding. Or so you think.
(Written by the Great and Powerful Keski,
spell checked by Microsoft Works Word Processor)
---
Chapter III
Recall, Part One
---
Dhemlan Dachrea
Versiver's Castle
Alnevar scratched at his head, thinking deeply on something, but not letting on just what it was. Keski milled about the room, playing idly with the natural shadows.
"I just don't get it," Alnevar muttered finally.
"Huh?" Keski looked up from the little shadow he had been toying with.
"He still hates me. He despises me. What could I have done to cause that? He doesn't hate me for killing Tesora, that much is clear to me now. I would understand if that was it, but... it's not. Somehow I can tell. Why does he hate me so much?"
Keski answered the question with one of his own. "You have amnesia, right?"
"Yeah."
"And he knows why?"
"Obviously."
"So just ask him."
Alnevar didn't say anything for a long time. "I don't think it will be that easy," he murmured finally.
"Well, that's what I have to tell you," Keski said with a shrug, and returned to his game with the shadows.
Alnevar cursed under his breath and gazed out the window for a few moments. "Keski," he said finally.
"Yeah?" Keski said, again looking up.
"This castle's safe, right? That is to say, I won't be attacked by a bunch of gargoyles if I take a quick flight around the castle?"
Keski snorted. "Not likely. Security's pretty tight, but aside from that, not many people would dare attack someone so close to Lord Versiver."
Alnevar grunted and approached the window. He fiddled with a latch for a moment and flipped it open. "I'll be back in a little while," he muttered, and leapt out into the night sky.
Not bothering to spread his wings just yet, he let himself dive straight downward. And he fell.
He was falling.
---
He was falling.
The Liar had hit him. He wasn't able to strike back, or he would truly be punished. What had he done that was so wrong?
What was he doing?
---
Alnevar opened his eyes and snapped his wings to their full span immediately. He was mere feet away from the ground when he began to drift upwards, his heart racing.
He'd been falling, unconscious.
How in the name of Hell had that happened? He had blacked out immediately after emerging from the window, only to wake up moments before becoming a splatter on the ground outside the castle. He flew upwards, past his window, into the clouds that blanketed the night sky. Mere seconds after he'd begun to fly from the base of the castle itself, he had rocketed past the spires that topped it, plunged into the clouds above, and finally, he shot out of the cloud and into the clear night sky above. The air was thin up here. His breathing quickened, and not because of the adrenaline rush the speed had given him.
But how had he lost consciousness? Why?
And what were these images he seemed to remember? A faint pain… He couldn't recall anything else, though he tried.
He swooped through the night sky above the clouds for a long time, perhaps a full hour, before he gave to gliding along above the clouds and staring up at the half moon.
The half moon.
---
The half moon.
It was all he could see. His head lolled back and his eyes wouldn't seem to close. The moon. It seemed the moon was blinding him with its light. And the pain, the pure pain coursing through his very veins at this moment, it was nothing compared to what he knew would happen soon.
The Liar would find out about this. The Eyrien hadn't been able to stop himself, and the Liar would find out and he would be punished again.
The half moon was blinding him.
---
For the second time, Alnevar awakened, panicked, and barely saved himself a gruesome death. He slowed his descent and landed gently on the ground, holding his hand in his hands.
"Damn it," he murmured. "Damn it, I'm going to get myself killed. I need some sleep, or something." He glanced around. "Straight back to the castle," he muttered, "and no detours. I might not wake up next time." He cast about for a familiar psychic scent and caught Luseik's to his left. He launched himself into the air and raced in that direction as fast as he could, keeping to a low altitude, but he didn't have another blackout in all the time it took him to get back.
---
Alnevar dropped soundlessly through the window. It must be nearly midnight by now. The bed in the room had two pillows, and Keski was curled up, sleeping, on one of them. Alnevar pursed his lips and rubbed his head.
What's going on? Are these hallucinations? Or are they memories?
(They are whatever you choose to call them. Remnants of a past life.)
Alnevar sat down in the chair. He might have gotten worked up in another situation, but it was a voice on a personal thread, and it wasn't hurting him. Besides, he was tired.
(Well, my past life is going to wind up ending this one if it doesn't stop trying to make me remember it,) he sent back along the same thread.
(You will be fine,) the voice responded. It was female. It had a matronly ring to it, but a subtle charm that lent it an interesting tone. (If you like, we could discuss your amnesia--and it's current status--personally. I think you might like to hear what I have to say on the matter.)
(Sure,) Alnevar muttered. (I had assumed it was because I was tired, but if that's not the case, I'd love to know what's up with my head.)
The voice was amused. (Then, by all means, please return to the room in which you were introduced to my husband earlier today. I will be waiting.)
Alnevar was struck with a sudden silence. (Kennesra?) But the link was broken, and he couldn't seem to forge another. He got up and left the room.
---
Keski watched Alnevar leave the room. "And just where is he going, I wonder?" he murmured to himself as the Eyrien exited. Slithering through the shadows, keeping himself carefully shielded from sight and detection with his Black Jewels, he followed.
---
"And the young rubis makes his appearance," the woman said. She was, in a word, beautiful, so much so that she struck Alnevar speechless the moment he laid eyes on her. She was tall, and though not muscular in any sense, her image evoked one word in Alnevar's mind--strong. At a glance, even with her thin arms, she seemed a woman capable of bare-handed murder. His eyes continued to drink up her dark glory. Her dress was of a new style. It was black with a slight purple tint, as per the current fashion, and hugged her legs. It showed off the shape of her legs by making itself visible, through the simple way it had of drinking in any light nearby and reflecting it at least threefold in an almost hypnotic glimmer. The portion of the dress that covered her upper body was also purplish black, and was made of the same material, and obviously, it had the same gleaming effect. The neckline was neither high nor low, giving her neither a conservative appearance nor a seductive one. The sleeves reached about to her elbows and ended in delicate white ruffles. Her elaborately cut Black Jewel hung about her neck from intricately woven silver threads--no, they weren't threads, though they looked for all the Realms like threads. They were extremely fine chains, though exactly how Alnevar knew he couldn't have said. Her black hair was done up in a bun behind her head, in a style long abandoned by the Blood. Something about it, though, instead of making her seem reserved and mature, lent her aura even more beauty, which was strange, because Alnevar usually found long, flowing hair to be more attractive. Her face was pale but not unattractively so, slightly long, and not round at all, a trait which Alnevar found to be rather unappealing in women. Her eyes were visible from where Alnevar stood in the doorway, but it was impossible to tell exactly what color they were. They were distinct and clear, but something about them prevented Alnevar from properly identifying their color. He spent a full ten seconds staring into her eyes from where he stood in the doorway before he remembered himself and stepped in. The door closed behind him.
"I'm pleased that you decided to take me up on my offer," Kennesra said. Those twelve words alone told volumes about her. They were spoken softly, and it seemed that was how she normally spoke. The obvious quality of her voice was that of a small girl, rather high pitched. But the accent in which she spoke, one which hinted that she had grown up speaking the Old Tongue, abolished all preconceptions of immaturity from the listener's mind. Any further impressions were suspended when she spoke again.
"Alnevar, you came to learn what happened to you, and why you are suddenly remembering things, correct?"
Alnevar nodded.
"I must admit I have been helping your remembrance along, although your friend, Althemen, triggered it by telling you the basics of why your memory was altered to begin with."
It still felt strange to have Althemen referred to as his 'friend' and not his 'brother' but Althemen nodded again. "I could see that happening."
Kennesra closed her eyes. "And you would like to know why Althemen hates you so."
"Yes."
"I'm afraid I can't tell you everything, but I can certainly tell you a great deal. I can tell you why Althemen hates you. And I can tell you secrets about yourself that you are not presently aware of. But there is one thing I cannot tell you. I cannot tell you why your Lord Menteur abandoned you in the Pureblood Realms." She said this last with genuine regret. "And for this I am truly sorry, Alnevar."
"That's more than enough," Alnevar said, not giving much thought to the mention of the familiar name Menteur. Who was that? And why, in Alnevar's mind, was Menteur somehow connected to the other figure he suddenly remembered from the blackouts--The Liar. Somehow they were connected, Menteur and the Liar. But how? "And thank you."
She smiled. "Come here." And she turned around. "I have things I must show you." Kennesra began to walk toward a door in the far wall. Alnevar hurried after her.
---
"What is this place?" Alnevar breathed. They walked among shelves and shelves of dusty glass spheres and bowls. It didn't look like anything Alnevar had ever seen, and he kept his wings carefully folded to avoid breaking anything.
"These are the archives," she said. "And you needn't fear for breaking anything. They are each individually shielded and are perfectly safe." She turned her head to look over her shoulder at him. "Organizing them, though, after someone knocks a large amount off the shelves--now that's a living Hell."
"How are these archives?" he asked, amazed at everything he saw, though every sphere looked like all the rest, every bowl just like all the others.
"I shall show you when we return this way. For now, though, these will not serve our purpose." They came to a small metal door and Kennesra tapped the doorknob once (Alnevar sensed the dispelling of a Black-Lock) before opening it.
Beyond the door, Alnevar saw once they had both entered, was a small room. There was just enough space to comfortably fit maybe five people and still leave them enough room to move freely. With two of them, there was no problem. In the center of the room sat what looked, to Alnevar, like a witch's cauldron, the kind not used in centuries, and then only by Black Widows and Healers.
It became clear that this was not a thing to be used for concoctions and potions when Kennesra stood by it and laid both hands--Alnevar saw that her nails were painted (or was that paint at all?) a delicate silver color--on the rim of the cauldron and a silver smoke to match her nails came pouring over the edge. It didn't seem to be smoke, though. It didn't have the right qualities, even simply by appearance. It looked like a silvery substance consisting of nothing more than light, or perhaps it would be more prudent to go a step further and simply say energy had come overflowing out of the cauldron.
"Wait," Kennesra said. "I am going to show you my memories. It will convey your history more clearly than words. The aura will soon fill the room and you will see what you need to see."
Alnevar was a bit apprehensive, but she seemed friendly enough. She was a beautiful woman, in every sense of the word. The dress she wore only accentuated her natural beauty. It wouldn't have mattered had she worn rags and smeared dirt on her face.
Pity she was Versiver's wife.
As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Alnevar knew he had gone too far, even in mere thought. But before his thoughts could be taken any further, he saw that the aura of silvery mist had reached the level of his nose. He braced himself and took a deep breath. The room faded.
---
When he could see again, he was surprised. He'd expected this to have the quality of a dream, but it was perfectly realistic, save that everything had a slightly fuzzy quality. Well, if Kennesra was to be believed, these were old memories, not entirely reliable. He looked about himself. It was as if he stood in the environment, though he knew it wasn't possible.
He was in a corridor, completely devoid of human life. Where were the people? Anything living?
Shadows of people, hints of voices, images, all of it faded in slowly, and before Alnevar knew what was happening, there were people walking through the hallway.
Kennesra stood before him. She was younger, though not much, by appearance. She hadn't aged much physically in the years since this had happened, that much was clear.
Kennesra opened a door in the corridor and entered through it. Alnevar followed her. He easily passed through the door that she had already closed, into a room that made him stop dead in his tracks.
Alnevar saw himself, strapped to a reclined chair. Kennesra stood before a--thing. The creature seemed to be some sort of spider hybrid, with a vaguely human upper body, but at least eight black, insectoid legs. His arms were also characterized by the same gleaming black trait as the rest of him. Kennesra was talking with it. It had a distinct accent and poor mastery of the language, but the meaning was conveyed. Alnevar could tell this was an old memory. The dialogue was lost, but the meaning of it all was clear enough. Kennesra could remember the event, just not the specifics. Kennesra was appealing to the thing--a kjeran, somehow, Alnevar knew--not to do whatever it was planning to do to Alnevar. The creature--a scientist. Alnevar finally drew that conclusion from the white coat it was wearing. The creature was under orders from Menteur--again, that name!-- and could not disobey. And besides, Alnevar had brought it on himself. And if Kennesra knew what was good for her, she should leave here too.
Kennesra didn't belong here. Alnevar got that distinct impression. This was Menteur's territory, it seemed, and she was not 'on Menteur's side' as it might be put simply. Once, she had been… But no more. She glared at the scientist and hissed a curse word in the Old Tongue at him. Alnevar didn't know the language, but the quality of the memory conveyed the meaning; she'd called him something along the lines of useless, but the terminology she had used had it obscene.
It seemed strange to refer to anything Kennesra did as obscene.
She stormed out of the room and the memory faded.
Alnevar found himself standing in an empty room once more. It was a generic room, the purpose not evident simply by being here. Then Kennesra appeared, standing against the wall, sobbing into her hands.
Versiver entered and saw her, hurried to stand before her, to ask what was the matter. She rejected his concern, stormed out.
The brief scene ended and it faded away.
Into another environment Alnevar found himself fading until he stood in a dimly lit room.
This memory was different. It had taken place before all the others. It was crystal clear, unlike the others, which had been faded. The colors were distinct, the room easy to see.
Alnevar froze and his eyes widened when the people entered the image.
Kennesra stood by the wall, her arms around a man--not Versiver--and the two were passionately kissing. This was no courtesy kiss, that was painfully obvious.
The man was an Eyrien.
Alnevar narrowed his eyes and stepped closer. When the kiss ended, the man pulled back and they spoke.
Kennesra was married to Versiver at the time. The concepts were conveyed smoothly to Alnevar through the memory. Kennesra was married to Versiver, and knew that this man was not her husband, yet they kissed anyway. Who was the man? Alnevar had a sinking suspicion, but needed to confirm it.
They continued to speak. The man felt guilt, and fear, over what he was doing with Kennesra, but couldn't resist her regardless.
The man started to turn around, ready to leave, but before Alnevar could see his face, the scene vanished and Alnevar felt a distinct twisting sensation of pain in his mind before he was in the cauldron room again, staggering backward to fall against the wall. Kennesra was staring at him in horror.
"What did you see?" she asked in her usual voice.
Alnevar didn't respond. When she spoke next it was nearly a shriek. "What did you see!"
"I don't know! You--you were kissing someone."
"Did you see who it was? Did you see--him?"
"No. No, I didn't," Alnevar gasped, holding his head.
No one said anything for several moments. The aura faded.
"You saw what I wanted you to see," she said, "but I did not mean to show you the last image. I would prefer if you forgot it, Alnevar."
He nodded. "Yes, sure," he said. "I--yeah. Okay. But what was all that about in the first place--the other memories?"
"Now that you've seen the memories," she said, "I can tell you the story."