Chapter 26: The Elder Mummy


He watched her.

Chocolate-brown eyes teemed with tears as they darted to and fro in accordance with her movements, glistening with the faintest peals of pale-gold light. He struggled, he resisted—but the ropes held him firm.

He was scared—she could see it in his eyes; in his face, and in the limpness of his young and boyish frame.

She grit her teeth, muscles tensing. Her right hand swathed itself in crimson-gold flames as she lifted it, knuckles paling in response to the tightening of her fist. She paused—then let loose the fire, a prayer within her throat.

Her aim was true.

He was called Radamant—of that much she was sure. The name, in its own, was born of pure evil.

Radamant.

In Kai'duvah, the demon-tongue—Rada; Bloodlust, and Mahnti.

Guardian.

The Guardian Father of Blood-lust.

She was only barely aware of Kei's crawled retreat as the Guardian arched his back, rearing on slender, bony limbs. A low, ominous rumble echoed about the catacombs in perfect synchrony with the trembling of the ground; the very foundations of the blood-slicked ceiling were threatened. Her fingers tightened about the polished wooden staff of deep-brown rosewood; she counted to five, biting lip and harnessing resolve as she did so.

The stage was set; the boy was out of harm's way. In his darkened corner, the Guardian roared his anger.

She exhaled heavily, shaking fear from her head. Within the palm of her hand, she could feel the tingling warmth of newborn flames; they licked about the sides of her fingers, curling about her forearm and elbow. And then she darted forward, footsteps light upon the ground.

Easily, he avoided the swooping motion of her staff as she came forward. Even as bony, pale-grey fingers intercepted the path of fire towards his face, he lifted a leg; and with unmatched dexterity caught the staff in the heel of his foot. In the dimness of the candle-lit hall, Cordelia thought she saw the glimmer of golden anklets; but gasped, swearing, as he leaned forwards, crushing the staff into the ground with his weight, and bringing her with it.

She rolled aside beneath the portico of his legs, grunting as she came to surface behind him. The staff would not budge—he was too heavy.

Gritting her teeth, she drew her dagger, and, cursing the fates, drove it deep into the crevice that was the Guardian's back. He screamed, flailing fleshless arms as he turned to round upon her. She was weightless as he flung her against the slick, cold wall, his shrill, jubilant tones reverberating within the halls amidst her cries of pain and terror. The tremors rippled through her body, coursing along the length of her spine as he lifted a greying, liver-spotted limb—his hand. She gasped; but could find no time in which to catch her breath before the bony digits wrapped themselves about the flesh of her neck. The ground came away as the world began to spin; yet all she found she could do was to wriggle, as a fish out of water would.

He chuckled, leaning close, as though to study the lines upon her creased brow. Cordelia gasped—then choked at the discovery of the stench of sulpher and smoke. Up close, she saw that the Guardian's eyes were black; pure, midnight ebon, with naught but anguished hatred within. She gasped again, fighting for breath as her fingers sought to pry his away in futile attempts. Again, and again, she scratched at him, until she was sure that her nails were caked in blood and skin—yet the Guardian did not yield.

"Cordelia!"

It was Kei who awoke her sleeping senses; his voice which tore through her awareness. Cordelia found herself rasping, but the words within her throat would not form themselves. She squeezed her eyes shut, bloodless fingers trembling with the effort—and half a moment later, cried out once more, the air rushing through her lungs in earth-shattering release as a bright yellow bolt of lightning exploded in the air.

She fell, and fell, flinging wisps of crimson from her face.

All too late, she saw the sword upon the ground—swathed in blood, and rusted with age, it stood; upright, protruding the rotting corpse of what had once been a guard of Lut Gholein.

Yet still, she fell.

Her scream was caught in her throat as the sword found its sheath in her abdomen.

For several short moments, she lay prostrate, her cheek upon the half-decayed chest of the man who rested beneath her. The bones that were pressed taut against her skin were defiled with ebon soot—yet bits of sinew and broken muscle clung, still, to them. She tried to speak, but the words would not come; pain had overtaken every last corner within the vestiges of her conscious mind. A cold, chilling draft tickled her back; the sword had driven clean through muscle and skin.

"CORDELIA!"

The screams were but echoes within her head. Her vision dimmed as the halls darkened.

Kei.

Dear Gods, Kei.

She heaved a dry sob—but it hurt her to breathe. It hurt to live.

Another scream; a child's cry, mingled amidst the inhuman screeches of bestial rage and pain. And then, collapsing heavily onto her, an unseen body; icy-cold to the very touch against the skin of her back. The sword within her shifted a little, but she was numb to the pain as her head jerked, involuntarily, forwards, expelling blood and bile from within the back of her throat and lungs.

"Cordelia—oh, dear Gods, the abomination is on top of her…"

A man, with a voice honey-smooth, accented with the faintest tinges of Lut Gholein aristocracy.

And yet, even as she strove to open her eyes, Cordelia found that it was not, in fact, the Prince of Lut Gholein before her.

"Cor—shh." The deep grey eyes that were fixed upon her were fearful; she had not seen that look in quite a while. His tone was low; whispered, as though he did not wish to disturb her. "It's going to be okay. You're all right—you're okay."

"Sau—" The name lingered, for the briefest of moments, upon the tip of her tongue; but it, too, was lost, as the world about her ceased to exist.

"—through her stomach, she's lucky to have survived thus far."

"I don't care about the details, Fara, I just want to know—"

"—we can't know for sure, Jerhyn. Not until she awakens, it's impossible to gauge—"

"Will she live? It's a simple question that anyone should be able to answer."

"With all due respect, My Lord—if it is so simple a question, perhaps you may answer it for yourself. Now, if that is all, I have another to attend to."

Within the never-ending night that was the darkness of her mind, Cordelia sought clarity. Pain, and disorientation ravaged what remained of her consciousness, hewing and slashing at the threads of her memory, until all connection between thought and recollection was severed. Sounds were amplified to tens above their true volume; and each murmur, each whispered word weighed upon her head as brick upon sand.

She swam through the darkness, as though she were liquid ice, eluding the threads of memory that swirled about her legs and arms. They tickled at the soles of her feet, circling the stubs of her toes in tentative, gentle touches.

The gentleness was not to last.

Without warning, the tendrils tightened their hold of her, pulling, pulling, and pulling her back. She thrashed, she flailed; but to no avail. In one fell swoop, the threads of memory—of reality engulfed her whole, swallowing her within its painful depths.

She gasped; then hissed as sunlight flooded her line of vision. For a moment or two, she merely lay still, wincing in complete rhythm with the pulsating of her abdomen. Her breath came in quick, short rasps; but the pain within her abdomen was dulled, now.

Only then did she come to realise that she, indeed, was very much alive.

It was several long minutes before she attempted, once more, to brave the brightness of the sun. One hand brushed gently against the tingling skin of her abdomen as she breathed in, and then out, and then in again in an attempt at calming her subconscious body. Slender fingers traced the swollen and crinkly flesh of what had once been smooth and supple silk. She blinked the tears from her eyes—then hissed once more as the world came into clearer focus; it hurt her head.

The softened rustle of robes alerted her of a different presence. Instinctively, she reached out, fingers trembling.

He's here. He's always here—always, by my side. He wouldn't leave me. Not now.

Not like this.

"Saul…?"

There came no response.

She inhaled, biting her lip as the lump within her throat threatened to overcome her very being.

He's here. He has to be.

"Saul." Louder, she murmured, hating the quavering hiss that had become her voice—then grunted quietly as she shifted, hands moving in an attempt to push herself upright. She was impatient now; but she found she could not rise without aid. "A little—help—please?"

He came, rustling silvery silks and deep-blue velvets as he took her by the waist and drew her upright, cradling her as though she were a child. Dark, chocolate-brown eyes narrowed in obvious anxiety; but she thought she saw traces of sadness within them.

They were, after all, Jerhyn's eyes.

"You're awake." His voice was low, even wretched—but she found she could not focus, despite the guilt now flooding the very depths of her stomach.

"…yes." She murmured. And then, having found nothing else to say—"…how is Kei?"

He bowed his head, the prince, as his fingers found her hands to squeeze gently upon them. "He lives. But…" Here, he paused, then shook his head, offering the weakest of smiles. "…perhaps it is best that you discover it for yourself, and at a later date. Fara will not clear you for movement; of that much I am certain."

"Is Atma—" Cordelia whispered, wincing slightly; her shoulders were shaking. "—is she…?"

"She knows." The response was brief. It did not make her feel any better. "She's concerned for you, too, Cordelia. You should rest. It does not do to exert yourself while your body requires respite."

She bit her lip. There were questions to be asked, and answers to be received—but that which she wished most to discover, she found she could not ask. Instead, she curled an arm across her abdomen, eyes narrowed in slight discomfort as she gazed once more towards the prince. "…the sword pierced me here."

Jerhyn nodded in silence as his lips thinned. "Yes."

"The… scar." She said it deliberately; slowly, yet distinctly. It struck, resonant, within her head, and echoed in the quietude of her physical surroundings; and for some reason, it calmed her somewhat to hear it spoken aloud.

He avoided her eyes, as though he could not bear to watch her; but she did not crumble, nor did she harbour any desire to cry. In the stead of bitterness, she found a quiet acceptance. "Your injuries were far too extensive. She could not prevent the scarring—if she'd had worked a little slower, you would have…"

"Died." The word came easily to her, but at present, it did not quite scare her as it would a regular being—yet Jerhyn, obviously, was averse to it. He flinched, and she felt his fingers tighten painfully about hers, as though he were scared. For several moments, she merely watched his hands, unmoving and silent, then sighed, shaking her head gently. "I am healthy, Jerhyn, and very much alive. You needn't fear."

The prince of Lut Gholein made a sound somewhere between a dry, humourless laugh, and a grunt. "I couldn't protect you—and for that, I am sorry. Please…" His deep-brown orbs were wet as he placed gentle fingers beneath her chin, lifting her head to look her in the eye. "…forgive me."

She could find no words. Instead, she offered a faint smile—then rubbed gingerly at the hand about her shoulders for a moment or two, before dropping her glance. She knew her words and actions to be pretentious; she was sure he knew it. There was, however, no helping of it—there could be no change of heart.

And, as he drew her closer, running a tender hand through her hair as he held her head against his shoulder, she allowed her eyes to fall shut, wishing, that with the soon-to-come setting of the sun, that she would then be left to her tears, unshed.

By twilight, the news had spread.

Man, woman and child—all who lived within the city had heard.

The demon; the Guardian of darkness had been defeated. Their prince's betrothed lay in recuperation within the royal palace.

And Atma—poor, widowed Atma, was now mother to a witless boy.

For the first time in a long time, the door to Atma's tavern remained bolted past the hour of the sun's setting. The windows were kept shut, and the lanterns upon their sills were lifeless; unlit. All who crossed her street did so in silence; to speak was to dishonor her loss.

The heavens knew she had lost enough.

They sat upon a table within the heart of the tavern, surrounded by shadows cast upon the diminutive light of a single, flickering lamp. The silence hung thick; it had been so for many an hour, but they, neither of them, thought to speak.

Truth be told, the druid found the entire situation rather surreal. It seemed a web of falsehoods and gloom, designed with malicious intent to draw the nightmares from his mind. He had neglected to wash; his clothes and hands were stained with blood.

Cordelia's blood.

He flinched, gritting his teeth as the images threatened to cross their threshold into the corners of his conscious mind. She lived; he knew that much. Fara had, earlier, stopped by the tavern to supply the news—and he was grateful for it. Yet, even as he'd gotten to his feet to go to her, he'd found himself hesitant.

Surely, Jerhyn would be by her side.

Across the table from him, Araeya shifted slightly. Her eyes were slanted in obvious concern, amidst traces of something like fear as she watched him—he had not seen her so before. Likewise, in similar fashion, Deckard Cain, too, sat in silence, his shoulders slumped as he leaned forwards upon wrinkled elbows.

The silence was well-founded—yet now that it had been established, it proved difficult to dispel.

It was Araeya who spoke, first. Her jaw was tense as she leaned forward, shoulders squared against the chill of the night. "You should wash."

Saul, who discovered no strength in his legs, merely shrugged. "Later."

"You should at least rest." Cain supplied quietly. The lines beneath his eyes were deeper that night, as were those upon his aging, creased forehead.

"I'm not tired." The druid countered. He knew his tone to be riddled with impatience—but he could not much help it at present.

Araeya frowned—then, without warning, straightened, running a hand quickly through her hair to sweep the pale-gold curtain from her face. Her tone was surprisingly rough as she spoke once more; perhaps she'd exhausted, at last, her supply of patience. "I think you misunderstood my words." She scowled, leaning closer towards him. "Excuse my language, then—when I say you should wash, I meant that you really should wash that blood off yourself before I see fit to throw you into the depths of Gyurahn. Are you forgetting that you're in Atma's home, and, vulnerable as she is at present, that she may well be troubled by the blood on your hands?"

He grunted; then turned from her, gritting his teeth. He was, at present, in no mood to argue.

"Are you listening to me?" The Amazon was relentless. Her voice was tinged, now, with mild disgust. "Get up—get up now!"

"Damn it, Aya!" Before he knew it, he'd jumped to his feet. His chair, thus pushed back, crashed heavily into the ground, but they were deaf to it. "Can't you see it's difficult for me!?"

"What is so difficult?!" She, too, had risen, her face flushed with the sentiments within her person. "Is water so precious a commodity that you cannot bathe yourself?! A bath, Saul, to save her from the pain she's sure to experience upon glimpsing your bloodied body!"

"And what of me!? The woman I love lies broken, alone, and I can't—I can't go to her." His throat ached—yet he found he could not quiet the tempest within his chest. "Am I not allowed a moment in which to grieve on her account?!"

"She lives, you sanctimonious bastard! Your Cordelia lives, while Atma is bound to her death to care for a son who will never know her again!" Her tone was that of trembling cadences as she slammed a hand upon the wooden surface of the table. "And you have had many hours in which to process the information—damn it, Saul, how much slower could you be?!"

Something clicked within the darkness of his mind as his anger at her began to ebb away into the realm of nothingness. Something was wrong. She was not one to scream, the Amazon—but she seemed to have little difficulty with it at present. He found he could not speak, nor could he draw his gaze from her.

She stood, shivering, both hands clutching at the edge of the table, her knuckles a pale, bloodless ivory. Blue-green eyes were dark with emotion, lingering anxiety amidst bitterness, fear, and hysteria. Her breathing came in harsh rasps, and though she said no more, the slant of her brows were quite enough to convey her train of thoughts. She was terrifying in such a state—but more than that.

She was terrified.

"Araeya—" He began.

"No." She shook her head, pale-gold locks falling, once more, to shield her face. "Don't."

"But—"

"I said no!" Feral eyes were narrowly slitted as she lifted her head to meet his eyes. She growled, turning, then strode towards the door. Saul saw the tensing of her shoulders, and the flexing of her fingers, and swore inwardly.

Here, now, was a wounded beast—vulnerable and frightened. And, despite the worry caught within his belly, despite his slowly-dissipating anger, he found himself concerned.

She kept her head bowed as she wrenched the bolt upwards, then flung open the wooden door, before stepping through the threshold, pausing just a moment to grunt—"Just wash that damn blood off."

And even as she stalked away, her cloak billowing in the wind about her legs, the druid could not help but wonder if, perhaps, the Amazon was, after all, just as broken as he was.


Author's Note: Umm. Hi, guys, I'm back? I imagine large amounts of you want to kill me for taking so long with this chapter, but I swear I've got good reason! Uni's been a pain in the neck for me, and I've been SO busy with my assignments! I have NOT forgotten this fic, however, and ya'll can rest assured that I will finish it, no matter what happens. So hang in there, yes?

Thanks go out to Ophelion, who's been… great. Just awesomely great, without which my resolve to finish this fic would be greatly weakened. You guys should thank her by going to read and review her fic, Bowslingers!

Next up are skopde, Luna Atra, and Fallen Dragonfly, who've been as loyal to me as I've been loyal to caffeine. Thank you guys so much—I don't know what I'd do if it weren't for your reviews and kind remarks.

Thanks, also, to Twilight Bunny and kick for the reviews!

Keep reading, you guys, and look out for the next chapter, entitled, "Riches and Relics"! Until then, rest in the knowledge that I shall finish this fic, if only to get to my DIII fic, (which I've already got a DELICIOUS cast in mind for, ha!). It's going to be great, but I'm not going to tell y'all why—not just yet.

Anyways! Thanks, as always, drop me a line!