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A Ragnarok On-Line Fan Fiction
"Falling for Hellish Eyes"
By Bloody Priestess
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Summary: Assassin Cross x Priestess. They couldn't be anymore different, yet that difference bonded them as childhood best friends but now the difference of their jobs, stand in life, and feuding guilds thwart the blooming fondness for one another.
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Author's Notes: (n/n/2005) This is in response to some posted reviews. You may disregard this but for information's sake allow me to voice this out. I made an accord with myself that I should refrain to put up A/N in the beginning of the ffic but much to my dismay I cannot—so here goes.
I intentionally used the phrase 'Authoress' to emphasize that I am female. With that thought I presumed that you—the readers would be conscious of the connotation that I have certain limitations and cannot-dos in my fics (for example—male-associated violence, to name a few, or in my case—a lot). But okay… I'll change it back to the usual phrase that is 'Author's Notes'.
Hmn, the capitalization of the words like 'assassin' and 'rogue' is actually correct. The aforementioned words are indeed—proper nouns in Ragnarok canon. It seems that you must refer to the way I used them in the sentence—that I'm not so confident and with that you're (possibly) correct. Thank you for telling me. I really appreciate it your inputs.
I will do my utmost best to avoid any more mistakes but it cannot be helped if I do happen to fail, right? I am, after all I'm only human, a mere mortal who's every much capable to failures mistakes and weaknesses.
Thank you for the very insightful and beautiful reviews—you've challenged me to do better and that's a good thing. I only pray that you'll never tire of hearing that—it hurts when you're pouring your heart (and mind) out and all they hear is the bland clichés.
Thank you for hearing me out. Here's chapter 3, guys, enjoy!
Chapter Three: Requiem
A solitary pianoforte's resonant tune filled the Guild House's halls with this eerie, dishearten ambiance. The heartbreaking melody played on, reminding the household of the lingering mood cast on to them by Death.
It was amongst them—it was still with them.
Whisperingly faint against the pianos echo were scarcely audible wails from the Guild Members. For right this very moment, their much-loved and honorable Guild Master lay in a tomb within the guild castles' main hall, mourned.
A human-shaped, tamed monster Zherlthish, named affectionately Ish (AN: pronounced EYE-sh) stood by the entrance of the chamber where her master was performing the melancholic notes upon the grand piano's keys. Although she was merely a monster tamed by the pianist, Ish had feelings too… She knew of death and loss—after all it used to be her area of expertise until this young maiden taught her how to …care.
The pet concentrated on that composed visage that shrouded her owner, a young priestess. It was undeniable—but what people fail to discern is that clandestine gloom that cunningly hid away from sight amongst the corners of her divine appearance.
Even the keenest of eye, tend to fail to see the gloom underlying the stunning patrician features of Adrienne Luex's face. The young priestess always made it a point keep the corners of her lush mouth in an upward curve. Her slightly tilted almond shaped, silver-gray eyes consistently twinkled with gaiety, wit and encouragement for whoever they fall on; but lose some of its usual luster whenever she was helping herself. Her laughter constantly ringed with a light, musical note to it as it emanate sincerity and at the same time it was generously laced with a weighty, inexpressibly profound meaning.
"There it is," Ish stated instantly recognizing that far-away look. "The traumatized gloom of a past—a past tormented with sorrow."
Behind the grim melody, Ish could just about hear her master's thoughts. It was a tamed Zherlthish's endowment, to have the ability to hear the unspoken thoughts of people other than themselves. They called it, Telepathy.
In her master's silence, Ish was able to hear (involuntarily) the voice of the young priestess' thoughts as if her "mi lady" was directly talking into her bizarre yet, as Ish had been told, endearingly pointy ears.
"Death is yet again upon this stronghold,
Requiems cried up, down, 'round the place,"
"As usual, the master sings the prayer in her thoughts." Ish deliberated as her wonderfully odd, olive-green eyes determined to remain glued and watching—or in this case, listening.
It was melodious, almost lulling, and Ish found herself lost in the singer's clear, soothing soprano voice as it was mellifluously contrasting to the deep tone of the ivories resounding keys…
"A just man rests peacefully in a tomb,
The end is rife upon his still face."
The priestess's mouth did not stir as her melodiously soft and soprano voice filled the dome of musicality in the Zherlthish's head.
"Lord have mercy on his soul,
Kyrie Eleison... 'tis our appeal."
The musical bearings created by the piano keys were now much more calmed, accepting and featherlike to the ears—as if it was trying to convey a message that it was now accepting.
"Guide his soul into Valhalla's hall,
Open your doors, receive him, please..."
The melody deepens all the more in the bridge of the song…
"Lord have mercy on his soul,
Kyrie Eleison... 'tis our appeal."
And without warning…
The colors began swivel, twist and blended past Ish in a nauseating blur of motion and sensations. They swiveled, twisted and blended until there was nothing left but pitch darkness and void.
All of the sudden, out of the void came forth this awesome explosion of sparks—sparks brought shadows and the shadows eased into silhouetted figures.
And so a vision began to unfurl before Ish's awe-stricken eyes.
…
One by one, the mighty fell to the bitter, embittered earth.
Among the few left standing was a young-looking acolyte. She shivered, but it was not of the bitingly cold rain that fell unto her grief-bowed head and her shoulders slumped by defeat that affirmed her—
Now… she was on her knees.
The cries of battle and death appear to ebb as if it was at a great distance from where she was. Her movements were slow and almost reluctant.
Earlier, an impious mortal had summoned monsters by the entrance of the Archer Village, near Payon Cave in Payon with the use of Dead Branches, no less a hundred in number.
The tears streaming down her cheeks were not obvious as it intermingles with the fat drops of rainfall.
The rain fell upon her like unforgiving, icy daggers. It was cutting and ripping her apart—slowly killing her from the inside out.
Her body was unusually feeble and frozen. She could not even find that strength of will, her father constantly boasted she possessed. That missing vitality was supposed to trigger her to rise on both her feet and (at least) make an effort to run away from the surreal vision of corpses.
Didn't really seemed like a necessity—given that the only person who believed "you can" was drenched not only by the rainwater but also in a pool of his own blood.
"Father," the thirteen year old acolyte whispered brokenly. "Don't leave me..." Her hands clasped over the open wound on her father chest—'twas too late… the blood ought to have dried if not for the dampness of rain.
She cupped her bloodstained hands to her face—too proud to allow her father see her lament.
Her father is dead. The reality of the thought finally sank in.
The approaching footsteps were muffled by the drops of rain as it hit the sodden earth. She still had her eyes covered—it was impossible for her to see the white-draped, ghastly figure of a Wanderer ominously towering behind her—its daunting staff suspended in air set to slay.
Swiftly after sensing the apparent danger, the acolyte turned in due course to see the Wanderer wield its weapon down unto her.
For the first split of the second the acolyte was delighted—she was to join her father into Valhalla. And the second half of that spilt second, she dreaded—who was going to bury him beside her mother in Alberta?
She found herself involuntarily screaming, her eyes shut away from the horror that was before her. "NOOOOOOOO!"
"DEVOTION!" A deep, manly tone of voice chanted.
Surprisingly, this most illuminated circle of light ringed around the ground where she was on. At the same time the monster's staff hit her squarely on the shoulder but she felt not even a twinge of pain.
She rotated to the chant which was instantly followed of the renewed battle cry— And to where rain silhouetted forms of a fully-armored man and a miniature version of it, drawing close to where she and the monster stood ground.
A raven black haired swordsman, a little over her age, charged towards the Wanderer his broadsword unsheathed and hoisted up in the air as he assailed.
"Hiiiiiiiiiya!"
The acolyte caught a glimpse of the same illuminated circle around on her upon the Swordie and her eyes dazedly followed the delicately simmering, thread-like line that circles around each of them she saw it trail back to a battle-scared, another raven-black haired person but the difference was this one's a Crusader.
The crusader smiled tightly at her as his face twitched in pain when the Swordie under his supportive spell was clobbered by the Wanderer. Seeing that the monster shifted its target and was now attacking the "miniature him"—and well away from the astounded acolyte, the crusader joined to spar against the fiend.
The acolyte noticed the fresh and unhurt faces coming to assist of those who were getting weary to continue the battle against the summoned monsters. The newcomers were all adorn with the same coat of arms—they were of the same guild with her two rescuers!
She beheld the unfolding events in stunned awe and fright as the crusader to cast Holy Cross, his weapon following motion that characterized the sacred insignia.
The Wanderer paused with its face contorted in incredulity and before shrinking away to nothingness at her savior's feet.
"Alright!" the young Swordie smirked, looking with veneration at the crusaders exploit.
"He saved me from what could have been deaths bow…" And the thought of it caused her cheeks to burn. Her head hung in shame and her body quivering with fury—all of which were directed to her person.
The younger swordsman's vibrantly steel-blue eyes briefly yet understandingly flashed at her before sighting of a fellow guild member, a blonde Mage sprinting away from a Rubio. He picked up his weapon and meddled there, leaving the acolyte alone with the Crusader.
Seeing that she was still on her knees, incapable of moving throughout the fight against the Wanderer, the Crusader checked up on her. He saw that she was breathing and chivalrously offered his very own piece of Fabric to cover the face of the deceased that she devotedly tried to protect.
She simply continued to gape at the fabric draped over the corpse's face, hoping that by some divine intervention the corpse would get up and become the man that sired and raised her.
Oh what she would have given to have ability to Resurrect… Now!
Seeing her in alarming motionlessness like that of the dead around her, he took the liberty of casting Heal on her—just to be sure.
"My sworn duty as an Acolyte was to PROTECT. But from the looks of this," She faintly gestured to a lifeless thing whom all throughout her existence she called 'Father'. My father. And at that moment her eyes began to fill with fresh tears, "I failed! I couldn't even protect myself—my papa had to run in and save me… me, ME! The one who ought to protect!"
The handsomely weathered mans' light-brown eyes observed her with quiet curiosity and compassion as she continued to whimper in all her despair.
"It's awfully obvious that," said she woundingly, "they should have made him the Acolyte and me, the merchant! My person—my papa, I cannot protect neither! What is my purpose, now that I've just proved that I can only fail! Sir," she finally locked her gaze up to him—broken and defeated yet brutally sincere, "Unworthy am I of your valiant effort. I am a failure."
"My dear," he spoke as if she was a little child (well, she was acting like one), "you have not failed—but you're this," he held up his thumb and index finger narrowly apart to demonstrate his point, "close to failing. What, may I ask, is the basis of your power and abilities as an acolyte?"
Her eyebrows arched slightly, perceptively expressing her awareness of the Crusaders 'trick question'. On the other hand, she was immeasurably curious and reasonably bemused to what was supposed to be the right answer to that trick question of his.
She was suddenly hushed and he felt he was getting nowhere so he coaxed. "Oh come on, think, child! Like you, I have draw power from this—"
Gradually, the falling rains tempo slowed and through the gray skies, little sunshine eased through them. With the little light, the Crusaders necklace caught a bit of that daylight—there it was the answer to his question, in a form of a… cross.
"Faith." her voice awfully meek and humiliated, "we, Acolyte and Crusader alike, both draw our powers from the faith in the Divine Power."
"Yes, very good and very beautifully said."
"You coached me, sir."
"And humble too. Only Acolytes carry out that trait through and through. From the looks of it, you're well-matched with the job you've chosen."
She persisted in her silent, angst-ridden anticipation that pretty soon he'd rub the point of his trick question. Then the notion made her think twice—and finally when she couldn't take the anticipation building in her so she cheekily asked, "Sir, do you think I am a failure?"
"Like I said earlier, this close," he emphasized again with that same gesture of his fingers. "My dear child, you have yet to fail." He smiled when the dark, gray skies in eyes demystified and her mind broadened with new knowledge. "When you lose faith—on yourself, on others and to the Divine Power—that would be your failure… That would be your only failure. Surely, you understand?"
"Yes I understand, sir. Thank you for the insight, sir." She bowed real low, causing her mud, blood and rain soiled hair to brush off her shoulders and unto the front of her. "Well… farewell."
"Young miss, I am Derek Chantal, Guild Master of the guild, Militia of Sungren, Order of Cerberus" the crusader stated gallantly, "You'd be very much welcome to join this Guild."
Two huge tears rolled down on either side of her grubby and blood-soiled cheeks, "Thank you so much, sir. But I must lie to rest my father in the city of his birth."
"And after you accomplish that errand? I, so boldly assume you have no place to go. Will you join the Militia of Sungren?"
She smiled gratefully. He saved her…again. But this time, from a lonely existence.
The images gradually to swivel into another nauseating blur of color and faltering suppressed emotions.
Ish's vision finally ended as she was looking at her master's back to her. The Priestess' figure was bent over focused with her piano playing. The pet warily ran a hand through the waist-length, silver strands of her hair in optimism it'd soothe the throbbing of her head.
"First, father … then the Guild Master," The priestess breathed mournfully, "In the end, we're all pawns to the fates' will." Getting off her seat before the piano, she clasped her hands together. "May the Gods hear and answer my prayers in behalf of those who grieve." And those who continues to grieve.
The young miss pulled her lengthy, midnight-blue hair off her shoulder as she picked up the piano cover and replaced it over the instrument. She unexpectedly paused, her silver eyes deep in thought, "Time has this nasty trend of repeating the history."
Ish couldn't help nodding her head in agreement.
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"Ushering into his majesty's presence of 'The Compromise to Freija, the Goddess of Beauty' of the Guild—Militia of Sungren, Order of Cerberus," a seemingly afar voice called out within the halls of King Tristran III's majestic Grand Hall and throne room.
The King's present audience was composed of Knights and Lord Knights and Crusaders and Paladins in their best undamaged, polished-to-a-glaring-sheen armor and swords sheathed on their sides. The Wizards and High Wizards and Sages and Professors were there too dressedin their long heavy, robes and staffs judiciously anchored unto the floorboards. The Hunters and Snipers have their bows draped around their upper body as their falcons' gyratory overhead. The case-hardened Blacksmiths and Whitesmiths with their axes propped forebodingly over their shoulders. The bookish-looking Alchemists and Creators were present too with their ever present thick, leather bounded books. Although sensuously swaying Dancers and Gypsies were admitted. And their counterpart—the Bards and Minstrels were playing musical accompaniment. The brawny-looking Monks and Champions, as well as the Priests and High Priests and Priestesses and High Priestesses were there with their demeanor in every respect pious.
As if in unanimity, the flow of conversation within the hall dispensed akin to ice-cold ripples upon the pristinely warm, rushing water of brought forth by the season of spring.
His majesty's audience rotated to the halls massive entrance where a pair of cloaked figures stood, unmoving as they waited to be acknowledged and granted in the bounds of the Kings public antechamber.
"Forgive me, my lord, my ladies and your majesty—if I so boldly to correct the Royal Presenter. I am no longer who they call 'The Compromise to Freija, the Goddess of Beauty' since the transfer of rule in our guild to Sir Damon Chantal. I am," she gracefully dropped, her head lowered and her dark skirts spilled around her knees in a deep, throne-room curtsy, "the 'Jewel of Prayer'."
"Welcome, my child!" King Tristan's voice reverberated cordially from his throne, apparently recognizing the figures and agreeably ignoring the somewhat livid murmurs of the crowd.
The spectators' eyes inquisitive and watchful—although, this was not the first time they caught a glimpse on any of the distinguished Militia of Sungren's Guild members, curiosity continue to run strong. The Militia guildsmen were infamously well-known for their discreetness and potency in getting the job done. Eyes followed the devastatingly lovely young woman and wondered to themselves— Such a deceptive appearance!
Given this reality, many guilds try and try again to gain control of Militia's castles in optimism to consume the prolific loots that lie within the guilds Treasure Room care of His Majesty, King Tristran III who they loyally serve. And many other guilds envy their 'closeness' to the king and his court.
They know for a fact that the Militia and its three Orders (Cerberus, Furies and Ixion) was established some years ago—upon the demise of Derek Chantal's father—Vernon, whom the current king's father knew. Vernon was the Militia's major head and Grand Guild Master. It was in his will that the guild was to have three orders (or sometimes called—Guild Extensions) and his three children were to have dominion over one.
His eldest, the Paladin Derek was to have the 'Order of Cerberus' and the agit—The Cyfton Castle. Vernon's only daughter Juniper, a wise Professor was to have the 'Order of Furies' and the agit—The Wyvern Castle. And the youngest—Preston, a Champion had 'Order of Ixion' and the agit—The Gyndon Castle. The famous and notorious among Militia's three orders was—the Cerberus.
The newly arrived visitors received the recognition from His Majesty as an opening to strip off the fabric that concealed their faces. The shorter of the two figures was the first to decloak, her long midnight-blue hair was tidily hooped with a golden circlet. Where as the second figure—to the utter astonishment of the majority of the group—followed, put on view not only her monstrous features but her apparent sensitivity and awareness seeing that, she rehooded herself.
"Come, come now, and don't be bashful!" And with gesture of his imperious, bejeweled hand, the King of Rune-Midgard motioned the midnight-blue haired maiden to approach the throne—the closest any person amongst the assembled audience were to the king. "Bring along your Zherlthish as well, my dear."
When pair was before the king, he rigorously continued as if he was trying to hide away this dreadfully stinging ache. "I am sorry for your Guilds loss." He reached, to take the small, richly ornate valise she ceremoniously handed to him with her head bowed. A rueful smile manifested at the sight of the valise's content. His majesty raised the trinket for all the room to see.
She recognized the jewel brooch to be Derek Chantal's. She need not be a historian to know that the trinket—had history that only the two men knew of.
A sad tear glided down the monarch's face… "Derek Chantal is—was a great man, an outstanding warrior and modest servant to God and the sentinel for the citizen of Rune Midgard… And above all, he was a true and loyal friend."
A shiver ran down her spine. The priestess understood why the king was being this way. She knew that King Tristan III and Derek Chantal were best of friends—they just about grew up together, closer than blood relations, and friends.
"It's always hard to say good bye to a friend." She heard herself say.
She just then, she unconsciously reached for her ear, in nostalgic contemplation for an earring that was still missing.
Just then a soldier came busting through the doors, an arm propped against the massive double-doors, trying to catch his breath, "I apologize your majesty and honored visitors!" he wheezed before recomposing himself and this time addressing the visitors as well, "but one of your agits is under siege."
As if in cue, gasps of unease filled the hall.
"Well?" the king's tone completely devoid of the warmness he showed to his friends that the soldier shuddered. "Which one is it?"
Quickly and shakily the soldier glanced at the piece of parchment and judging from the size of it was delivered by the use of pigeons. "The Cyfton Castle, you majesty, one of your own—that is until it given away, so therefore, was your own. Th—"
The midnight-blue haired priestess shifted uncomfortably. She cast a sideways glance to her pet, Ish. "Ours…" she whispered in her thoughts as an end result, Ish heard that message in utmost discreetness.
But the king spotted that action of hers, he turned to her. "Go. And defend your agit… Protect it—for you guilds honor and in my bosom friend, Derek Chantal's memory."
"Rest assured your majesty." And with that she gave a cool, calm and collected curtsy.
At the very moment she finished her 'little' bow and her eyes were in plain sight, King Tristran noticed that her eyes were reminiscent of hard, gray colored steel. "With Odin's blessings, we will."
"Determination, burns behind those peculiarly hued eyes of hers…" Someone amongst the assembled crowd thought whilst hidden and unnoticed by the king's noble guests.
"All right then," The king once more waved his imperious, bejeweled hand. "May the almighty Odin take all of you into the shroud of his protection!"
Ish and her priestess-master strode promptly out of castle and into its outdoors. Every once in awhile the priestess' golden, bejeweled circlet caught a striking ray of early spring's sunlight and with that making her unbound, straight, dark-hued hair spangle with its natural polish.
Ish stopped abruptly her master stopped and checked if they were followed, "Mi lady." the pet began beseechingly knowing what was to come, "Please, allow me to stand alongside with you during the siege."
"No," the priestess answered austerely and finally. "You know all to well that if I am lost and were to be resurrected again—you'd think less of me."
"Never, mi lady!" said Ish, her olive-green eyes sincere as they were adamant, "You know nothing would ever make me disloyal to you."
"But we can't afford to take that chance to prove your point, Ish."
There was this bright urgency in her Mi lady's eyes—Ish knew how that came about, when you're in a guild and its emblem is branded unto you. You attain this telepathic communication with your guild members and that goes the same when you're in a party.
"We don't have the luxury of time, Ish. Please conform."
"Whatever you wish, mi lady I will obey." But Ish's tenor was odd in undemonstrative averse and resignation.
Her lips curl into a cheerless smile. "Thank you."
She set her pet back into its egg state and deposited the tiny egg tenderly into her pocket.
"I'm sorry if I have to be this way with you, Ish." She said out loud, knowing that once the pet is in its egg state they can't see, hear, or feel anything. "I guess I'm simply too proud to let anyone know I care for them—so tend to I push them away. I cannot afford to tell you although you are my confidant—I cannot afford to tell anybody."
Then the priestess clasped her hands together over a sparkling blue gemstone. "Warp Portal", said she as she stepped into a foggy-white whirlwind on the ground and disappeared.
"But I heard that, Adrienne Luex. I know better now…" And in an eye blink, he too vanished.
End of Chapter Three
Author's Notes: Ei. How's the chapters length? I was just simply conforming (see reviews, please! thankü).
I just need to clarify this (before I confuse you guys), chapter three's setting occurred a couple of years after the timeframe made known in chapter two.
In addition to the changes I've made (it was pointed out by a reviewer. Thanks by the way, Mr. Cigara!). Here's another, Zach is still an Assassin… NOT yet an Assassin Cross.
It's sorta redundant to tell you guys that I edited and made slight revisions of the previous chapters, as I always do (ignore this if you read it after 11/05/2005 )
I am extremely sorry for the confusion if may have caused. Please don't be offended (for those who think I've under-minded their comprehension skill), I merely am making sure that I delivered my thoughts right for this ficcie. I guess it cannot be helped if the trickster Loki chooses to set off his idea of fun by meddling and mocking me.
I implore you, grand Odin to please preserve me.
As for you guys—ROk on/no1
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