Chapter 21: Of Acquaintances and Amazons

--

In days of old and lands so gold,

There came to life a child so cold.

With bluebell eyes and rose-tinged lips,

And hair that fell in crimson wisps.

--

So wild a child hath not been born,

Before that golden summer's morn.

O'er fields of green and rivers blue,

She ran and ran, til' night was due.

--

Thus winters came, and summers went,

To fiery child is beauty lent.

And eighteen years of childhood bliss,

Is ever sealed within a kiss.

--

For prince and princess, hand in hand,

A marriage sealed in wedding band.

As ebon hawk weds iv'ry dove,

Forever is the bond of love.

--

"Why—" Saul began, wryly. "—does the princess always marry the prince?"

The hazel-eyed woman beside him laughed, her voice a low, somewhat husky burr. "It is always written in the stars as such, is it not?" She stretched, tossing blood-red locks over her shoulder as she leaned towards the druid. Before the small, gathered crowd, the poet bowed—then departed the square, jingling coin and token in his pouch. "Princes must marry princesses, and in this manner preserve the royal line."

Saul scowled. "You speak of marriage as a means of naught but expansion of the human race."

"In a manner, that is the truth." The woman said, chuckling softly. "There are those who marry for gold—those who marry for status and elevation of ranks. There are also those who marry for convenience." Her eyes twinkled ever so slightly; perhaps she was amused. "It makes just as much sense to marry for heirs."

"Or for love."

She laughed once more, shaking her head just a touch. "I did not think you a helpless romantic, young man."

He scowled again. "I'm not."

"You are not a young man?" Heavens be, was she jesting now? And at his expense, too? The thought rather annoyed him. "I had not thought you older than myself—and I have seen three decades past."

"Think what you will." The makeshift seat of wooden crate made a loud, scrapping sound against the grey stone of the ground as the druid got to his feet. "Are all women of your colouring—" He paused, wrinkling his nose as he gestured mildly towards her firestorm hair. "—beset with bladed tongues? Your words, to me, are comparable to roses' thorns—and even the latter lacks your bite."

For a moment or two, she watched him—then smiled. "Roses have thorns, but women can rely on nothing more than their tongues to protect themselves. But I see little sense in arguing this matter—you are clearly in pain. I assume she's a beauty?" She canted her head ever so slightly towards the druid. "The woman who broke your heart for a prince?"

He swore. Then crossed his arms. "Not your business. Not when I haven't a single idea as to who you are."

"Fair enough." She mused, eyes alit with amusement even as she ran a gentle forefinger along the length of her chin. "It is an interesting argument that you present. But I have nothing to hide. If the truth of my being unlocks your business, then you may ask what you wish of me."

"I have no interest in acquaintances." Saul muttered. But the woman chose simply to smile at him—it was somewhat unnerving.

"Ah, such a loner." The woman sighed, though the smile remained upon her painted lips. She got to her feet—then stretched, muscled limbs extending far above her head. "A pity."

"Why's that?"

"You remind me of a certain young man that I called friend many moons ago." She shrugged. "Only, he was much less grim, and much more sociable. But then again—human nature is said to differ from land to land. It would be tedious to meet the same person more than once, I think."

Saul pursed his lips ever so slightly—but could not hide the faint smile upon his face. "If sociability is of such importance to you, then—you may call me Saul."

She chuckled, clasping a hand over her mouth, rustling ivory silk puff-sleeves as she did so. "A pleasure, Master Saul. I am called The Smith, by some. But my name is Fara, and you may use that in addressing myself."

"Fara?" Something clicked within the depths of his head—the name was, to him, somehow familiar.

Perhaps she noticed the look upon his face; for with something of a smile—"It is an uncommon name, yet you show recognition. Perhaps you do know me, after all."

He frowned. "It cannot be. I don't know your face at all."

"Perhaps you have heard of me? Many speak of my smithy as the best in Lut Gholein." She said, crossing her arms over her chest. For a moment or two, Saul found himself marveling at the bluntness with which she delivered her sentence. It was both arrogant, and yet, strangely endearing.

"I suppose." He shrugged, combing back the ebon locks shielding his eyes with his fingers. His hair had grown—where the front of it had barely reached his eyelids several months back, it fell, now, over his eyes. And even then, the back of it was near reaching his shoulders. "But I doubt much that your name arose in conversation regarding arms and armour."

"Ignore that which is said of me otherwise." She smirked. "Unless your ears are light."

Saul made a face. "You, Fara, are the first with which I have spoken within this sand-trap here. I assure you, I have heard no foul rumour of you."

Fara laughed. "Were you not met by our Prince, o' great demon-slayer of Entsteig?"

"Him!" Saul scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. He did not deal well with mockery. "Aye, we were. And I mean no offense to you Lady Fara, but I harbor no loyalty nor love towards him. His very presence annoys me, and I wish him nothing more than bad luck." And then, adding as an afterthought—"Very bad luck."

She placed a finger against her lower lip. Then smiled, though somewhat enigmatically. "So he's the prince who stole your maiden."

"Again. Not your business."

"Ah, but it is. Jerhyn is prince of Lut Gholein—and Lut Gholein is where I make my living. Therefore, you might say that, as a concerned citizen, I have every right to know of my prince's suitors." The smith leaned back, hazel orbs alit with amusement. "You, Saul, travel with Cordelia of the Medjai. It is now safe for me to assume that she is the suitor I have heard of since many, many moons ago."

He lifted a would-be nonchalant brow, though his insides were burning—with hurt, or anger, he had little idea. Perhaps it was both. "How many moons ago, exactly?"

She placed a slender finger upon her lower lip, wrinkling her nose, apparently deep in thought. "Since about ten summers ago, I believe."

"She was bethrothed at eight!"

"Aye, and he was twelve." A smirk—and then, that mild, languid tone again. "About your age, no?"

Saul crossed his arms over his chest—then felt the crevices upon his forehead deepen ever so slightly. "You know too much."

She did not seem the least bit inclined to refute his statement. Instead, she chuckled, shaking crimson tresses over her shoulder as she eyed him, seeming somewhat amused. "I make it my business to know too much. But you, Master Saul—you know too little."

He grunted. "What, by God, does that mean? Speak plainly. I find myself quite annoyed at present, and have little desire and strength to consider your mystifying words of infinite wisdom."

Fara laughed once more, though Saul thought he saw a flicker of something within her deep hazel eyes. Was it pity? "Cynical and sarcastic. I can see why the princess of the Medjai would not have you."

For some reason, the insult didn't quite hit. Perhaps he was numb to it all—and, severely retorting a clever remark, merely chose to stare at his feet. He said nothing.

"You might have seen this coming, you know. She is tia-aldyn of her people—sworn to honour the bond between her kin and Jerhyn's." She paused a moment, seemingly considering something. Only several short moments later did she opt to speak once more. "I daresay it is not her desire to marry our prince."

"She is a princess in her own right. Should she not have her own say in a choice of husband?" Saul said, quietly. His ears felt as if they were on fire; a fine testament to the rapid rush of blood he felt within his skull. "She shouldn't have to marry him if she doesn't want to."

"She wants to. She just doesn't desire it."

"Again, with your riddles."

The smile upon her face became somewhat wry. Clasping her hands together over her abdomen, she leaned towards him, studying his face intently for several short moments. "She wants to please her parents, and she means to do it. No matter what the cost. Therefore, she wants to marry Jerhyn, though her heartstrings pull her the other way. She is a puppet, Master Saul; a puppet with a heart of its own, that suffers as it is forced into unwanted union with an unknown man."

Saul grit his teeth, exhaling as he clasped both hands over his face. In one, single, split second, his thoughts cleared—and in its place remained but one emotion.

Hurt.

He was hurt—he had no desire to deny such a fact. But it occurred to him, just then, that maybe—just maybe, Cordelia was every bit as hurt as he was.

Perhaps she ached more.

Lights.

Sounds.

There seemed a myriad of colours, mingled olives and yellows amidst the golden glow; the makings of a humid desert morning. The air was balmy—warm, as it were. Too warm. Too hot. The cries of desert birds filled the skies, though little of it was perceptible through the bustle and hustle of the nearby marketplace.

She could hear the people calling out their prices. Smell the scent of salt and fish in the air. Feel the heated air about her skin.

Slowly, groggily, Cordelia opened her eyes.

It was several minutes afterwards before she found herself with the ability to comprehend her surroundings. The lights were bright—for the sun of Aranoch shone heavier and longer than the sun of Entsteig. It was all rather foreign to the sorceress—the weather, the air, and the sun. Dear God, the sun.

She moaned softly, kicking heavy fur pelts from her chest and legs as she sat up straight. For a moment or two, she wondered at the need for such coverings—the nights of Lut Gholein were hot as their days.

Perhaps it was the effect of Summer. The season of heatstrokes and of illnesses.

The season of scorching heat and of draught.

The season of unwanted change and stone-carved destinies.

She had never been one to enjoy the Summer. Spring, always, she had enjoyed. There was something about the way that the flowers bloomed that caught her attention, and there was something about the sweetened scents within the air that held her attention so. If anything, the colours were more than enough to keep her spirits high. Autumn came in at a close second. The skies were always shades of pinks and oranges then. The whole effect of crimson-and-olive leaves upon skies of such colour—well, it more than took her breath away.

And winter. The Winter, she loved beyond all reasoning. Sheets of ice and blankets of snow had always been tonic for her moods. Winter was when the Sanctuary became Pure. Clean, true, and pure. There were no lies and deceit in the Winter—naught but joy would find its way into her being in the time of its domain.

She loved the Winter.

It seemed half of forever ago, that she'd seen her last winter. She remembered it well—she'd only just turned eight. The Medjai had settled, that Winter, within the forests of Kehjistan. It had been nothing more than a snowy blanket of ivory upon browns and greens and greys, but it'd been the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

And still, ten years hence, the statement held true. It was, even now, the most beautiful sight that had ever graced her eyes.

A soft, gentle tap upon her wooden door brought her to her senses. She saw, now, in broad daylight, the entirety of the room she'd in which she'd spent the previous night.

"Tia-aldyn Cordeillea? Meriech iduvar khiarn khaang ouvbuiden?"

"Anu-aang iduvar. Mera khiarn biddenouv."

The wooden door slid open, creaking softly as it scraped across the floor. Cordelia winced—then got to her feet, turning towards the newcomer.

She was tall for her gender, and petite, appearing even delicate at a first glance. The entirety of her was sheated in alabaster—her skin was, in every essense the embodiment of fairness. She wore her silken, ebon hair in a somewhat severe topknot at the back of her head—and held it up with several tiny, bejeweled clips of antique gold. Dark, exotic eyes of smoky grey were lined with thick, curly lashes. Her dress was of deep blue silk, heavily accented with threads of black and silver. She wore a silken, silver sash, and upon her brow sat a thin, silver circlet, adorned with a single, glimmering sapphire. She was a handsome woman—though no doubt touched by the years.

She smiled. "Merajhan Vyndarra asa aruiin ane, Cordeillea."

"Aruui, Cairanna Atma."

"Baranei, Cordeillea. Mera cairn vadei garun arui-aang garnet. Atma weina coufinette."

Cordelia wrinkled her nose. "If you insist on using such language with me, Atma—then I shall return the favour."

The woman laughed, shaking her head just a touch. Then, smiling, she went towards the sorceress, eyes flooded with gladness and joy. "I have missed you, Elisse."

"And I you, Atma." Cordelia whispered—she was only vaguely aware that her voice was but a mere whisper; and at any rate, she found she could not hear herself.

"It has been many years. Lift your face. Let me see you clearly." She reached out towards the sorceress, and with cool, slender fingers, cupped her face. Grey met blue, as the elder studied the younger. Finally, she spoke. "The years have changed you. You have become a fine young woman."

"Have I?" The younger muttered softly under her breath. "Atma, I feel as if I have not changed in the very least. I feel as I felt ten years ago—trapped."

Atma chuckled dryly, shaking her head as she drew the other to her. "Inuu, Elisse. You are changed—I see it in your eyes. Do you think that I know nothing of my charge? Fifteen years I watched you grow. Fifteen years. One does not forget that bond—nor does it decompose through time, as other bonds do."

"You did not leave for Kehjistan with the Medjai." It was not a question.

"Inuu." The other repeated—but here, her smile deepened, revealing hitherto hidden dimples within the crevices of her cheek. "I remained."

Cordelia smiled somewhat weakly as she leaned her head upon the other's shoulder. "You remained with Arhaid."

"Aruui, Elisse. I remained with Arhaid." She whispered, slender fingers stroking gently upon the sorceress's hair.

"You married him."

"Yes."

"Atma."

The elder woman tilted her head gently, blinking mildly. "Yes, child?"

Cordelia bit her lower lip—then lifted her gaze to meet the other's. "Are—are you happy?"

"I wed a man of my own choosing. He loves me, and I him. And through him, I have a son—and though Kei is not of my own womb, I am happy to have him by my side."

"Are you happy?"

"Aruui, Elisse. Anu-aang dairugar."

The world spun wildly about him—the humidity, the atmosphere, the heat, and the sun. Aranoch was home to hostile conditions—even the winds were no friends to the druid. The sands swirled in swaths of greys and browns about his boots, suffocating; clouding what meager vision he had.

He hated the Summer.

Horrible things happened in the Summer; the weather would turn hot and unforgiving, and often resulted in nosebleeds and fistfights.

Children often fought when hot and bothered.

He scowled—then twirled about, hating the dusty mist that rose to his face. His eyes were beginning to water.

The demoness before him hissed; and the druid had a single seconds' glimpse of the narrow, braided whip, before it came into contact with the side of his face.

He toppled over onto the sand, releasing a heavy grunt as his vision went blurry. He tasted blood. Yet before he had time to process his new circumstance, the sharp hiss of braided rope upon sand caught his attention—and, with hasty difficulty, he rolled over, then jumped to his feet.

Felines. He was fighting felines.

The demons within Aranoch were varied. He'd encountered, thus far, sand-leapers; giant, poisonous-looking toads, with scaly, clawed, and webbed fingers. He'd encountered, also, parties of vultures—vicious, blood-seeking hunters, on the prowl for blood and flesh. For several short moments, Saul found himself imagining them feasting—then blanched. The mere thought of beak upon intestine and raw liver brought bile to his throat.

And now, late into the afternoon, he'd encountered feline demons. Wild cat-women, with bestial yellow eyes, fur-covered flesh, and paws where hands should have fit.

And by God. They had tails.

The whip came at him once more—but this time, he was ready. He jumped aside, narrowly avoiding yet another lick of the demoness's weapon. Again, and again he ducked; and as he did so, flicked his staff about at random intervals.

It seemed half of forever later before he felt the jolt of staff upon whip. He gave the staff a rapid jerk—and breathed once more as the whip came loose of its owner's palm.

Seconds passed in deafening silence. The demoness stared as Saul drew his blade to strike, shocked into silence and immobility.

Then, emiting a faint, rasping gurgle, she crumpled onto the floor at his feet, a crimson-fletched arrow buried deep into the side of her neck.

"Hesitation will cost you your life. Strike first, for none within Aranoch will spare you that chance."

Saul growled quietly under his breath.

It was a woman.

The grains of sand were caught, still, within his eyes. He could feel blood upon his cheek where the whip had struck. There were several angry welts upon his arms, souvenirs from his previous assailants. Yet his pride told him to remain still—to remain calm.

"What do you want?" He grunted. His vision was beginning to clear, if ever so slightly. He narrowed his eyes, as he squinted towards her.

Amazon.

Heavily layered locks of platinum and honey fell about her forehead, ears, and shoulders. Her eyes were of shades of blues and greens, delicately flecked with gold. They were, just then, narrowed ever so slightly—but if she was in any way wary, she did not show it otherwise. Her skin was deeply tanned—and, as she gave her jewel-encrusted bow an idle twirl, it struck Saul somewhat ironic that, despite his first impression of her, she could easily pass as a desert local.

But it was impossible that she was born of Aranoch. The Amazon in her was clear, despite her shadowed complexion. The clothes, her weapons—it all bore whispers of her home, and of her heritage. She wore about her torso a crimson corset, and sleek, ebon pants of polished leather. About her waist hung several smaller pouches, amidst crystal vials of crimson and blue. A quiver of arrows rested strapped against her back, and her cloak, a thin, black thing, hung limp from one shoulder.

She grinned. "Grumpy. Very grumpy."

Saul scowled. "If it is in your agenda to taunt and insult me, Amazon, save your words. They do not bother me."

"Ah, but they do." She laughed—then stretched her arms out behind her; and with casual ease, deposited bow into quiver. "My words had some effect on you. I mean to say, they caused you to scowl, didn't they?"

He narrowed his eyes—but found that he did not quite have the strength to argue. Instead, the druid gritted his teeth, then turned his back to her. "Think what you wish."

"For your sake, I do wish you'd take my advice." Her voice was somewhat mild—languid, and careless. For some reason, it rather annoyed him. "Hesitation will cost you much."

"Not your business." He growled, clenching his fists. His temper had become rather short as of late.

"No. Certainly not my business." She agreed, tossing platinum locks over her shoulder. "But I rather disaprove of suicide, or of any behaviour that resembles suicide, however minute the resemblance is."

"I am not suicidal." Saul countered. "And even if I were, it is none of your business."

She smirked, looking somewhat vaguely amused. "Are you always this sociable? Your warm and caring nature really just brightens the day. In fact, that smile upon your face makes me feel as if I could sing for joy."

"Why, yes. I am, in fact, always this sociable. People crave my attention and conversation, and I never fail to charm the ladies. In fact, every room I enter glows with my brilliance, because I am, after all, an alien, glowing artifact of a human man. I radiate happiness." Saul crossed his arms over his shoulders. "And yes, I was being sarcastic. In case you missed that little random fact."

She blinked mildly at him for several short seconds. "…are you quite, quite sure you're a man? Your temper suggests otherwise."

"Quite certain. I would sooner die than to become one of your impossible gender. Your kin have fair tormented me these past few days." He hissed through gritted teeth. "Now leave me be, Amazon, before I really lose my temper."

"Certainly. The second you show me solid proof of your ownership of these lands, I shall leave you be. Otherwise, I have every right to be here." She examined her fingernails somewhat languidly—then lifted her gaze to his eyes once more.

"Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"Because I don't want to. Because, by God, you are just so fun to annoy."

He frowned. "Leave me alone."

"Duel me, and I will." She smirked.

"I beg your pardon?" Saul lifted a dark brow. He was genuinely surprised now.

"Fight me. If you win, I will leave you alone. If I you lose—well, I'd suggest you get used to my presence. However annoying you find me to be."

Saul found himself staring in wide-eyed, disbelieving silence towards the amazon. Surely, surely, she was not serious?

"I'm quite sure there is a law against stalking."

"I'm quite sure of that myself."

"I am not going to fight you!"

"Why? Because I'm a mere woman? O' great, muscular man of a hero?"

"I am not going to fight you!"

The smirk upon her face deepened ever so slightly. "Are you scared I'd beat you down? I'm half your size."

His ears were burning crimson. He was sure of it. Obviously a repitition was necessary. "I am not going to fight you! And that is the end of that!" He turned, and, mustering all the indignance he felt, began to stride away.

But he had barely walked five steps before she spoke again.

"Pity."

Saul turned his head ever so slightly to face her—then, in a single, split second, realised his mistake.

The amazon tossed her hair over her shoulder—then came at him at a run. Two steps from him, she leapt into the air—and half a second later, had pinned him to the ground.

She smirked—then leaned close into his face. "Like I said. Hesitation will cost you much in Aranoch."

Vyndarra-Common Translations

"Tia-aldyn Cordeillea? Meriech iduvar khiarn khaang ouvbuiden?" Tia-aldyn Cordelia? If you are awake, may I enter?

"Anu-aang iduvar. Mera khiarn biddenouv." I am awake. You may come in.

"Merajhan Vyndarra asa aruiin ane, Cordeillea." Your Vyndarra has greatly improved, Cordelia.

"Aruui, Cairanna Atma." Yes, Cairanna Atma. (Note: Cairanna is a respectful term, often used to address one's elders in the Medjai-Kiel.)

"Baranei, Cordeillea. Mera cairn vadei garun arui-aang garnet. Atma weina coufinette." Really, Cordelia. You need not call me that. Atma will suffice.

"Inuu." No.

"Aruui." Yes.

"Aruui, Elisse. Anu-aang dairugar." Yes, Elisse. I am happy.

Author's Note: Oh Dear God. I am so, so, sorry, you guys. I know that this was an exceptionally long wait, but I just couldn't write.

I know its no good excuse for the delay, but I got dumped a couple of weeks ago. And I just lost all will and desire to write then—because I fell completely to pieces. So here I am, pleading guilty to making y'all wait so long—but with reason! SORRY!

I'm not sure if this chapter turned out the way I wanted it to turn out, and it is possibly one of my weaker chapters, too. But still—I tried, and I decided that to make you guys wait any longer would be crazy, and suicidal. I've had several death threats already. :p

A big thank you to Ophelion, as usual, for the review! I'm sorry for antagonising Jerhyn for you—he's such a sweetheart in your fic, too. XD And PLEASE UPDATE WHEN YOU HAVE THE TIME. I am in great need of a fix of Nyhl. I miss Nyread fluff. Unngh.

Thanks also go out to skopde—don't worry. I haven't abandoned the fic. And I never will!

To FantasyFreak4Life—here's hoping you've gotten over your desire of killing me. Thanks for the review!

To Harold—wow, 10/10? Really? Thanks!

To Silvia—driving my characters insane is what I thrive on. I live on making their lives hell! Bwahahahahahaha!

…no, really. I honestly, really do feel bad for them. But I can't just let everything run smoothly and happily. That'd take away the zest of the actual story, and I'd start losing readers. And yes, Ria shall return. But you'll only meet her again in Act III, along with a brand new paladin character called Darius. Until then, I'm counting on Saul, Cordy, and my new Amazon PC to keep you amused and occupied. Thanks for the review, though!

To Syntium—Thank you! And I'm glad you enjoy the poems; I love writing them.

To Luna—Oh Dear GOD! You're BACK! Thank you for coming back! And don't worry—you will definitely see Ria again. She's far too juicy a character to give up just like that. So keep reading and try not to lose interest again! XD

To TheBlackKnight—One PC coming right up. Enjoy, and thanks for the review!

Well. That's it for now, folks. In the meantime, keep reviewing! I CRAVE REVIEWS to get over my ex boyfriend. Pretty please with sugar and honey on top?

Until then, peace out, and look forward to the next chapter, "Chapter 22: Broken Home". Bye for now!