The Shotgun Approach

Chapter 18: The Story of Artair

A/N: So here is the story of Artair. And a huge factor behind Ettie's addiction. Remember, she is talking to Yusuke here. Many things are about to come to light.

. . .

When I met him for the first time I was quite young—only sixteen. He was a human, several years older than me, who had fallen through a portal. They found him because of the scent of his blood. He was lying in a pool of it, the snow covered in it—staining it a deep red that was almost black.

I was the most adept healer in the party at the time, young as I was. And they wanted to keep him, just as they did with many of the others that showed potential—the ones with energy. On the main continent many called it reiki, but for our people we simply called it magick. Energy from the body, be it human or demon, it was all the same to us. It just manifested in different ways, from different places. Ours was produced within our demonic cores. But a human's power...it was coveted, because it was holy. Sacred.

Their magick came from the soul.

Torhild, the party leader, demanded I heal the human boy. I protested, having never used my powers on a human and worried it would cause some kind of irreversible damage. The rapid regeneration of cells was dangerous even for a demon if it was not done right. I did not know how it would react on a human. But Torhild didn't care, he threatened to tell my father of my belligerence and I fell silent. He coughed up his energy just so I was able to heal the boy fully. While I worked, they tied his arms with thick rope, so tight his hands turned an angry red.

The human was dressed strangely, garb that was made of some sort of fiber that offered no protection at all. Foolish human, to fall through a portal in the first place, but to appear here wounded was plain idiocy. Many could have eaten him.

Some might still.

He would be brought to my father and he would decide what should be done with him. If his magic was fearsome, he would become a slave, used only as canon fodder for the war.

If he was deemed weak...he would be sold or traded. Or even butchered for a sacrificial meal.

The man awoke half way through the healing. He did not scream. He did not fight or ask questions. But his eyes...

They both frightened and excited me. They glowed with something fierce, something preternatural. It made my blood pump slow in my veins and a drip of sweat cut a path down the back of my neck. I could not look away.

I didn't know if I even wanted to.

Never, out of all the humans who had come and gone, had I seen a look such as that.

Later that night the party made camp and the men drank themselves into stupors, falling asleep out in the snow around the fire. They had little to fear in these woods. We were the scariest things here, after all. Or so we thought.

But late, well after the moons rose to cast the snow in soft burgundy red light, the sound of screams rent the air.

I ran from my tent, ax clutched in the palm of my hand, ready for battle. The enemy, they must have found us. The rival clan my father was certain was planning to attack us any day now.

But what I discovered...was the last thing I ever thought possible.

There stood the human boy, a stolen sword held within his hand dripping with blood. Red splashed across his clothes, his face was smeared with it, and a power of such stunning magnitude swirled around him, clearing the land of snow. It was a beautiful and terrible power, a magick of which I had never seen or felt before. And all around him lay my people, dead, slaughtered by his hand. Not one was left alive...except for me.

His eyes seemed to glow in the night, a blue so deep it was like staring into an ocean. I could not help but think he was beautiful—a face painfully pretty, hair dark as obsidian, and body solid. A warrior's body. Though that could not be possible.

The humans never fought back. Not like this.

He lowered the blade and nodded once, placing a hand against his chest where I had healed his wounds.

A way of saying thanks.

He spared my life that day. And I did nothing to try and stop him when he fled.

When I returned home without the hunting party, I lied to my father. Told him our enemies came to slaughter us and I was the only who managed to get away.

He beat me for daring to return instead of dying with my clansmen.

Nine years later, perhaps by the Gods' divine will, I met the human male again. I was out gathering herbs, my status as a newly appointed Volva meant I traveled from town to town to offer my services to those in need. I was blessed by the goddess Freyja and many of the people considered my offerings the good will of the Gods.

It was summer, the air heavy with heat, but the coolness of the forest was pleasant.

The smell of blood struck me after a time, thick and viscous; fresh. So close I could taste the copper tang on my tongue.

I crept through the trees, careful to keep my presence hidden. The sound of clanging metal and the cries of battle made me move faster, rushing until I came upon two men in the midst of a sword fight. The tall one, with dark hair and strong shoulders, moved so swift it was no surprise when he quickly cut down the shorter demon.

Dressed in light armor that was ill fitting, but served its purpose well enough, he finished off the would be thief with a burst of bright, sapphire colored energy.

I would have known it anywhere.

Never would I feel something like that again in this lifetime.

Why? Why was he here? Why now?

He must be truly formidable to have lived all these years without becoming a slave or a meal. Formidable...or just smart. Cunning. But even that was formidable in its own right.

I stepped out from behind the trees and called to him. My mind drew a blank as to why, surely he would try to kill me this time. He would not let me go twice. He may not even remember me. But I was not afraid, for Valhalla awaited me should my life be taken here. And I could not allow this opportunity to pass. I truly believed meeting him again was fate.

He turned, surprised, his sword still held aloft. He eyed me for a long moment...before sheathing it and placing a hand at his chin, cocking his head. His hair was a little longer now...and he'd grown a goatee. There were some new scars across his face as well, but they did not mar the beauty beneath.

He spoke, words I did not understand. But I had heard this language before—English.

It was called English.

"Who are you?" I asked in my own tongue, but he just shook his head, confusion clear on his face.

So I pointed to myself and carefully said, "Etternia."

He caught on and smiled, the grin lighting up his entire face. Oh...Ooh...what was this feeling? This sudden burn in my chest? It...hurt...but also made me...

Excited? Happy?

Sad...?

"Artair," he said, jabbing a thumb into his chest. "Artair Blackbourne."

Artair, as he called himself, took upon a whim to travel with me. Being a Volva, I never stayed anywhere long, but eventually I would return home. However, I could not stop my current pilgrimage so early on, so I accepted his company without much fuss.

Every time I entered a new town, he would disappear until I would leave several days later. Each time it got harder and harder to separate from him. Even with the language barrier, I rather liked his presence. He was smart, quick on his feet, and a skilled warrior. More than once, we fought side by side against foes of all kinds—thieves, rapists, and murderers. People who wished to covet the blessings of my kind to themselves. Demons who wanted to capture or devour Artair.

And then there were the ones who knew me—where I hailed from, who my father was. I killed them before they ever had the chance to report back to him.

It grew more and more dangerous...to be with Artair Blackbourne.

We slowly learned each other's languages...and I was able to speak with Artair more and more, learn more about him.

He was born and raised in a land called England. And there, as a young boy, he accepted a calling from his god—to hunt and kill demons. He was trained by warriors just like him...to kill my kind.

One day, while in the middle of battle, he fell through a hole...and it brought him here, to the lands of my people. He never found a way back home.

I was a traitor, by all accounts, to be associated with a man such as this.

But nothing Artair told me made me wish to end his life. His personality was infectious and the more I understood, the more I wanted to know. I must have asked him hundreds of questions, like an inquisitive child, but he answered every one seriously. And in turn, I answered all of his, until we knew everything about each other.

For two years we traveled like this...and I grew to care for Artair as much more than just a companion and ally.

I did not return home to my people.

When my pilgrimage ended, I asked Artair to stay with me—as my lover.

Even though I was already betrothed to the commander of my father's armies—Ingvar. I could not help but love Artair.

That love became all consuming, like a flame that engulfed my entire being. Artair was a gift. A precious, wonderful gift. And I loved him with every breath in my lungs and every drop of blood in my veins.

He was mine. And I was his.

We built a small home in the middle of an old wood. I placed protections in the trees and the grounds. I grew herb and vegetable gardens. I made money by producing and selling medicines, and Artair made jewelry so fine with his nimble fingers we wanted for nothing.

And I forgot the world. Forgot my calling. Forgot myself completely.

But it was okay—for I loved Artair more than anything in this world or the next. I would give it all up a thousand times over just to be with him, even for a moment.

The day I found out I was with child...I never thought I could feel such joy. And Artair...he was so proud, so happy.

I never thought it even a possibility.

When the birth drew near, I lay in bed beside Artair, my belly swollen and heavy. The embers of a fire glowed in the hearth and I awoke to the barest breath of a sound.

I found a knife poised at my throat, glinting in the moonlight that filtered in through our single window.

Behind the blade was Ingvar.

They had found me. Found Artair. After all this time, we still weren't safe.

But my energy was gone, taken by my child, used to protect the boy that would be born in just a few days time. Elementa women were completely defenseless while pregnant. I would not be able to move fast enough. I would not be able to kill Ingvar.

Artair awoke, as if sensing my distress, though neither of us made a sound. He lunged for his sword, but Ingvar knocked him back. When had Ingvar gotten so big? Was he always like this?

He pinned Artair to the floor, the blade at his throat.

I jolted up, grabbed the ax I kept by the bed, prepared to swing it. But Artair held up a hand and shouted, "Don't!"

He looked pointedly at my stomach and breathed again, "Don't, Etternia."

I hesitated, but when Ingvar reared back, prepared to stab Artair, I did not heed his warning. I lunged, sinking the ax into Ingvar's shoulder. He howled, tearing it from his back, and throwing it across the room.

He turned to me then, forgetting Artair, he grabbed me by my hair and dragged me from the cabin. He tossed me outside in the snow and straddled my waist, hitting me again and again, until I was sure my face was an unrecognizable mess. A yell came from behind him, Artair rushing out of our home, his sword held high—glowing with the dark light of his sapphire energy.

But Ingvar created a spear of ice swift as lightning, and pierced it through Artair's leg.

Artair snapped it, but he was not fast enough. Ingvar grabbed him by the throat and threw him to the ground, bringing his boot down against his throat before he could rise. Artair struggled, both hands wrapped around the foot that threatened to crush his windpipe.

To this day...I did not understand why Artair did not fight harder. If it was out of fear of death, out of fear of losing me, or perhaps both. And part of me, as much as I tried not to, resented him for that.

"Ingvar! Do not kill him! Vidar has given you orders."

Incensed, my once husband turned to the group of men who stood at the edge of my garden. The man who spoke was known as Arvid the Eagle...though I recognized most of the others as well. They were all men I fought with for many years. And they all chose to betray me.

Ingvar spat at Arvid's feet and cursed him with words so foul I cringed. Then he leaned over Artair and reared back a fist, hitting him square in the face with enough force to send the snow flying around them. I heard the sickening sound of snapping bone and when Ingvar pulled back to hit him again, I screamed, "NO!"

He turned to regard me with a look of seething disgust, true hatred shone in his eyes, but he pulled back and stepped away from Artair.

My lover did not move, blood marring the beauty of his face. He was unconscious, but alive. I was able to breathe a sigh of relief, though it would be short lived.

They never allowed me to heal him.

They took us back to the city, back to my father's lands. I did not know what would become of Artair until much later. My father had me chained to a bed in the house used for the births of Elementa children. And no matter how much I fought and screamed and struggled, they all refused to free me...even my mother. My mother, who I thought would always protect me. She could not even look me in the eye.

I begged for days to know what happened to Artair, but no one would tell me.

I just knew he wasn't dead. I would have felt it, I was sure of it.

With that small flame of hope burning bright within me, I resolved to give birth to our son, and then beg my father to free us. Perhaps he would see what this love created and allow us to leave with the child. His grandson.

But he was not so forgiving.

For my father knew nothing but cruelty. Not once did he show me an ounce of love.

Born a daughter instead of a son, I was never good enough for him.

And now...I was not even that. But a traitor to his people.

I gave birth to a healthy baby boy. And my father took him from me. To this day...I do not know if he lived or died, if they murdered him right outside the birth house and disposed of the body. Or if they abandoned him somewhere and by some miraculous blessing from the Gods, he managed to survive. Deep in my soul, that was my ultimate wish.

My father disowned me. Banished me. But I would have left anyway...never able to forgive them.

After my son was taken from me, I searched for Artair. I knew he was not in the city...and my stomach twisted with anxiety when the rumors began to filter through the travelers between the outlying towns.

The forest of Yggdrasil, they whispered. Something there was horribly wrong.

The forest of Yggdrasil was what made my father fight for his lands so fiercely, for our people held the world tree in their palms. It gave us divine power and a connection to the gods the other's lacked. The forest was the most sacred of places.

And in its center...there lied the tree. Our greatest secret. Forever hidden from the main continent in fear it would bring destruction to not only our people, but all those that called the North land home. Yggdrasil could offer a person their greatest happiness, their utmost wanted desire. The forest itself was like stepping into another world—a world that lacked the carnage and suffering of the rest of demon world. A true paradise in a place so hideous.

But now, when I stepped foot into that forest, a great sense of apprehension washed over me. An anxiety so cloying and thick it made nausea roil in my gut. Something was genuinely, irrefutably wrong here.

I knew what I would find...by the time I neared the base of Yggdrasil.

There...amongst the tree's massive roots, was a crystal clear thick jutting of ice. Ice so solid and unbreakable that only my father could have accomplished such a feat. His ice was impenetrable. It did not melt even when met with the hottest of fires.

And within the center of that ice, as if it were built to be a tomb, was Artair—a dagger pierced through his side, bloodied hands wrapped around the hilt, frozen while still alive.

Artair, whose face was forever stuck into a look so desperate that it shattered my mind—my soul.

My father had done this to punish me. I could not even give Artair a proper burial. He would not decay or return to the Earth as every living thing should once their time here was up. He would forever be trapped, the man I loved. And there was not a single thing I could do about it.

Everything. I had lost everything.

They ripped it from me with their bare hands. Cruel and uncaring and savage.

I tore at the ice until my fingers were blooded, half the nails missing. I beat against it with fist and power and stone. All my attempts were futile, pointless. Just as I knew they would be. But even still, I spent days trying to free him, forgoing sleep so not a second was wasted.

When I finally gave up, my blood smeared across the once pristine surface of the ice, I fell to my knees and wept.

And the trees seemed to bow with my grief. The forest silent but for my screams of anguish. For nothing would ever make this right. I would never be the same again.

For what I felt for Artair...it was not much different than what you claim to feel for me. A love so deep and undying that it was painful. I never even considered the notion of being able to love again...after the death of Artair.

That was when I felt it—the burning, searing pain of the fire. It consumed me, engulfed me. I could not feel or hear or see anything other than the roar of the flames and the rush of my blood as it burned through me.

I burnt the forest to ash that night, without even trying.

All that remained was the world tree...and that tomb of forever frozen ice. Even flames as hot as mine could not melt it and burn the body encased within.

The fire was a curse. But it was a curse I planned to use, if only just once. If only because I did not know how to stop it. Nor did I wish to.

Captured by the flames, I hunted down and killed my father's soldiers. The ones who came to steal us away from our home. But Ingvar was nowhere to be found, hiding, like a coward.

The river that ran through our city was awashed with blood. It ran red and stank of death by the time I was finished with them. And then I used the fire to burn their bodies to molten ash, leaving nothing for their families to bury.

I burned down houses, slaughtered all who tried to oppose me.

And when my father came out to meet me, I was fully prepared to kill him too. To kill everyone in the city; perhaps even further.

But I was young and foolish. Not even I stood a chance against him, not even with all the rage that coursed its way through my body.

My father put out my flames, left my body a ruined mess—I feared I would turn to ash and be cast to the winds. I could no longer fight, even if I wanted to. He would have killed him, without a thought or care.

He only spared my life...at the behest of my mother. My mother, who had not stood beside me. Who betrayed me as well. But for some gods forsaken reason begged my father to spare me.

Near death, I made my way onto a shipping boat headed for the main continent. The mental pain I suffered with was far worse than any physical wound I would ever receive. I half hoped someone would take advantage of my weakness...and just kill me. End the suffering.

I spent years just wandering afterwards, regaining my strength, creating all forms of drugs to help keep me numb. To try and forget. I was too much of a coward to take my own life.

But I would not forget. Not even in death.

All I could do was keep my mind so closed off and empty that I hardly thought of it. The dreams could not always be stopped, however, so I began to create more potent medicines, if only to sleep for a single dreamless night.

In my travels I saved any human I came across. I became known on the main continent as a human sympathizer—a heathen to demon kind. I was an outcast. I had no one and nothing to turn to.

I much preferred it that way.

And as I told you once before, I eventually found myself in Gandara. Where I met a healer there and worked under him for a time. He taught me your language, the language many used on the main land—Japanese. Until Lord Yomi discovered me...and gave me a job as the head healer for his armies.

And, as you already know, I was chosen to be the official healer for the demon world tournaments. Which was when I met a boy that shined so bright, the old memories of a man I once loved resurfaced and threatened to swallow me.

I left for human world. Lived as human a life as I could. Tried to forget who and what I was.

When I met you again...

. . .

"I was graced with five beautiful years with Artair," I breathed. "I should be thankful I was allowed even that, considering the kind of relationship it was—how frowned upon and forbidden it was to my kind."

Yusuke was frozen, speechless. He was sitting on the edge of my bed with a face so blank I could not tell what he was thinking.

I didn't know if I wanted to.

I was unable to sit during the entire retelling. I paced the room, leaving icy footprints in my wake, dragging frost covered fingers across my walls and bookcase. The spines of my books were frosted over, the room's temperature dropped several degrees.

Tears were frozen to my cheeks and eyelashes, like crystal droplets.

This was what Artair left me with—I was a shell. A disgrace. A man made me fall apart, a human man destroyed me and all I stood for. And yet, I loved him still, would always love him. But this was never meant to be the woman I was to become.

Yusuke swallowed thickly and cleared his throat. He dragged a hand through his loose hair, pushing it back only to have it fall forward again when his hand fell away. He buried his face in his hands afterwards, curling in on himself.

Fresh tears spilled from my eyes and hardened to my face. Tears I could not stop, though I never once changed my expression. They came, unbidden, against my will. Tears for Artair. Tears for myself. Tears for Yusuke.

If he did not say something soon...I was going to crumble. There was very little holding me together as it was, so very little. I did not want to lose myself so completely in front of him.

"Say something," I pleaded.

"What the hell do you want me to say?" he murmured. "What the hell am I supposed to say to something like that?"

He was angry, upset; lost. And he was not wrong—what was there to say...to something like this?

"Perhaps...it is best you leave."

"I can't," he choked out, his voice cracking. "I can't leave."

That was when I noticed the tears slipping between his fingers to paint the wooden floor. I stared, mesmerized as each drop joined the last, until a small puddle formed beneath him.

"Why do you cry?" I asked.

He sniffed and then sat up, wiping them away with harsh hands. "I'm not fucking crying," he said.

But he could not look at me. His eyes remained off somewhere over my shoulder; red and swollen. It was too much truth, I realized. Too much for someone so young to bear. He didn't know what to do with it. And I could not blame him.

Eventually, he settled on asking a single question, "You have a kid?"

"Had," I corrected. "He is most likely dead, no matter what I hope."

His face twisted, angry again. "How can you stand there and say that with a straight face? Don't you feel anything, Ettie?"

"Of course I do, but it is dull and far away after so many years of doing everything I could to suppress it. I never wanted to speak of it. Never."

"Then why did you? Why fucking tell me this? Why not just reject me again and leave me in the fucking dark?"

"Is that what you would have preferred? I can make a potion to remove your most recent memories, if that is what you wish."

"No!" he shouted. "No! That isn't what I want! I want you to show me some goddamn emotion! To let that impassive mask you keep on your face break for once!"

His anger invoked my own and I lunged forward, burying my fist into the front of his shirt and leaning in close enough I was sure he could smell the sorrow coating my tongue. "Is that what you think you want? Do you know what would happen, Yusuke, if I was able to do such a thing? Do you?"

He stared at me, eyes hard and face stuck in such an ill-tempered, petulant mask that I wanted to smack it off him.

"If I let go, if I allowed myself to feel everything I've suppressed all these years...I would burn this entire city to the ground. I would burn it to ash and feel not a single ounce of remorse. So think twice about what you wish for, little boy."

At the sound me calling him a little boy his entire face changed. It went from childish to fearsomely wrathful in the blink of an eye. The face of a demon king and not some lost human boy. A poor choice in words, spoken out of anger, would be my undoing. I could see it in his gaze—the way he now hated me.

"I don't want to fight with you," he said from between his teeth. "I know you have no other outlet. I get it. But don't ever call me a little fucking boy again. I'm a goddamn man, Ettie. And I plan to prove it."

I backed off, eyeing him with something akin to a challenge. "Oh? And how do you plan to prove it, as you say?"

I was goading him, I knew that. Goading him into what I did not know. But something in his eyes...they made me feel that same unwarranted excitement I felt when I first met Artair.

Yusuke stood to his full height, several inches taller than me, and smiled. But the smile was not kind nor was it sweet. "The next unification tournament is in a couple of months, at the end of summer. You're still gonna be the head healer, right?"

Confused now, all I could do was nod. "Yes, I planned to...unless something prevented me from attending."

"Good," he grinned, the look vicious, his fangs showing. "I want you to extend an invitation to your father. And hell, maybe your piece of shit ex-husband too."

"You can't be serious...?" I breathed. To say I was stunned would be the understatement of the century. He must be joking. "I will do no such thing."

"If you won't do it, I'll find someone who will. I'll leave it up to you." He walked to the door, picking up his shoes but not bothering to put them on.

"And Ettie," he said from over his shoulder. "I don't plan to lose this year either."

The click of the door as it shut made me realize I hadn't been able to utter a single word of true protest. What the hell was he thinking? Surely this would blow over in a day or two? He could not mean it...he couldn't...

I took in a shuddering breath, feeling the ache in my lungs and chest. An ache not caused by broken bones or fresh wounds, but old ones.

While Yusuke reminded me greatly of Artair in many ways, it was things like this that set him apart. And he was right, Yusuke was not a boy but a man. Thanks to my foolishness, he came up with this asinine plan.

I felt something painful dig its way deep, deep down inside me, until I feared it would swallow me whole. I needed to talk Yusuke out of this.

Because if I lost him too...

My eyes closed unbidden, my fists clenched at my sides, nails digging into my palms and drawing blood.

My father would show no mercy. None.

He would not play by the rules arranged by the tournament committee members. He would slaughter those who opposed him, one by one, until not a single one was left.

And then he would take Yusuke's crown...and wear it as his own. King of the main continent. Access to the world of man.

There would be no end to the deaths.

I grabbed my shoes and my bike keys. Left my building and drove towards the hospital closest. Tadao's hospital.

I parked my bike and pulled out my phone, dialing his number with shaking hands. I held it up to my ear and tried to be patient as it rang. When he did not immediately pick up, I clicked it closed and tried again...and again...and again.

When he finally picked up I did not give him a chance to snap at me. "Tadao..." and my voice was hollow and broken and small.

"Come inside," he said, understanding.

Tadao did not know much about me. But he knew there was a reason behind my addiction—that I took the pills not for pleasure, but for a pain so visceral and sharp that it outweighed a physical wound many times over.

When I dragged myself through one of the back doors, Tadao was on the other side waiting for me. He frowned sadly and nodded once. "Rough day, huh kid?"

A sob broke free before I could suppress it and it was the catalyst that opened a gate of suffering so long overdue that I could not even stand on two feet through the pain. I felt as if my chest would cave in, my wracking sobs the only thing stopping it from collapsing entirely. I fell to my knees and let Tadao lift me up and carry me into an empty on call room.

Bunk beds lined the wall and he placed me in the bottom one, told me to wait and lock the door behind him.

When he returned, it was with a needle filled to the brim with an amber colored liquid.

I knew what it was. And I did not care.

He took my arm, wrapped it in a tourniquet, and slipped the needle beneath my skin. It was over in an instant, the drug flooding my veins, my rapid descent into hell.

And I fell into a numbness so glorious I wished I never had to leave.

. . .

A/N: Tadao is not a good person. Lets just get that out now. He's not a villain, but he's a bastard all the same. So there it is, a very large and important piece of Ettie's past is finally out in the open. But it's not everything, just the final catalyst that caused her descent into hell.

And christ Yusuke, inviting her father to the tournament, really? xD