Chapter 27: Riches and Relics
She was not quite sure why, but the dawning of the new day saw the world more than unusually quiet. The early morning sunlight streaked across the bright blue skies, the golden arcs of glorious yellow warmth brushing gently upon the slowly-rustling leaves of the trees.
She took a deep breath, brushing platinum-blonde locks from her eyes. The rush of crisp, cool air into her lungs brought shivers to her spine—but she found herself smiling at the sensation.
She was alive.
The deep-green blades of grass tickled at the skin beneath the soles of her unshod feet, but not unpleasantly so. She inhaled—then exhaled, and inhaled again as she made her way through the grasslands set before her. The greens were enchanting, as were the wild and unbound nature of it all; and they called to her, whispering lulling melodies of tales long forgotten.
She stretched her arms up above her head, squinting against the sunlight as she fisted the fingers of her right hand. Such warmth, she mused—if she could but grasp that warmth, hold it close and allow it to burn within her breast, perhaps—just perhaps…
All too soon, she came to understand that her journey was ended. Grassy slopes gave way to sandy isles and crystalline beaches, upon which a civilization—a culture had been built. Outsiders called it Shartara.
She called it home.
The oiled-leather pavillions along her path were both native and alien. She found no words of response to shouted greetings—the faces were familiar, but she could match no names to them. For a fraction of a moment, she wondered at her identity—her purpose, and her destiny—then shook the thoughts from her head.
She knew her name, at the very least—and that, in every sense, was the very essense of self.
She ceased to ponder the question as the skies began to darken. Across the graying horizon, peals of crackling ivory lightning streaked from cloud to cloud, then reached out to touch, lightly, upon the surface of the ocean amidst the shattering roars of a thundering storm.
The Gods of the Skies and the Gods of the Seas were dancing, weaving the threads of pleasured song about the blanketed earth of the Sanctuary.
Time was of essense; that much was clear to her as the ice-cold raindrops began to fall, stinging hard against the skin of her face and crushing the length of her hair against her forehead and cheeks. She gasped, shuddering, as a great gust of bone-chilling wind rustled leaves and airborne dust about her still form—then gnashed her teeth, wincing slightly at the grit of sea-salt upon her tongue and the insides of her cheek.
She swore under her breath, lifting a hand to, once more, brush the hair from her eyes as she squinted into the misty greys. The pathways were deserted, now, in favour of pavillion fire-sides and hot cider. For a moment or two, she merely stood there, considering the possibility of the rain coming to a stop—but discarded the idea with a disgruntled scowl as yet another flash of lightning brightened the sky. Home was but to her left—yet she was loathe to enter into the warm indoors.
The third flash of lightning came accompanied with a thundering roar; the downpour had yet to cease. She sighed, bowing her head as she rubbed at the sides of her arms.
What was cold and rain, compared to—
"No." She growled, shaking the thoughts from her head. Then, grasping resolve within the palm of her hand, she turned, and strode towards the canvas-lined, khaki-leather pavillion.
The entrance flap had been laid shut, a perfect waterfall cascading over it from the curves of the slanted pavillion top. With one hand, she pulled the canvas aside, taking but a second to inhale, then exhale in preparation, before ducking into the darkness.
She was met with silence.
There were no lights—no sounds.
No sign of life, and no trace of existence.
Her legs gave way beneath her, and she fell, fell, fell onto the pelt-covered ground. Reason and meaning were abandoned—she knew only guilt and an overwhelming sense of loss. It was all a mystery to yet—yet to cry, and to grieve, seemed the right thing to do.
Meaningless, yet uncontrollable tears began to course along the sides of her face—and they felt right, somehow. Her shoulders trembled with the weight of illusion; anguish without absolute reason.
And so she wept, and she grieved.
Because it was right.
She came awake with a great, shuddering breath, her eyes flying open in all of a split second. Shafts of early morning sunlight were beginning to stream through the panes of smoke-dulled windows; she could hear the whistling of larks and seagulls just outside.
Just a dream.
She inhaled sharply, allowing her eyes to fall shut as she buried herself deeper into the swathes of warm sheets and pelts. The pillows were soft beneath her head—she had not felt so comfortable; so safe, in a while.
The faintest of smiles came upon her face, though she was unaware of it, as the thick, warm arm curled about her abdomen shifted a little to pull her close. She exhaled, relaxing, as she felt the warmth of the smooth, hard torso against the skin of her naked back, then drew the blankets closer as the coconut-scented breath tickled at her jaw between a rain of gentle kisses.
Gentle kisses from a gentle man.
"You're up early."
He smiled, though his eyes were shut. Long, curly lashes rested upon his sea-weathered cheek. "As are you."
"Hmm." She shut her eyes, then rolled over onto her back before leaning into the crook between his neck and shoulder. "I'm a light sleeper."
"I wouldn't know." He responded, sounding distinctly amused. "It's only been two weeks since you've started sharing my bed. I'm afraid your sleeping habits are, as of now, lost on me." The words were quiet, the tone low—it all spoke volumes of serenity amidst quietude. "So, where are you off to, next?"
"Into the desert. Apparently, we are to retrieve several horadric artifacts—We found a cube of sorts in the Halls of the Dead, and Saul found this scroll in the sewers…"
"And that scroll tells you to see out these horadric artifacts?"
"No. Deckard Cain tells us to seek—"
"Ha!"
"…Meshif." She murmured, turning slightly to drape a delicate hand upon his chest. The hand upon her abdomen was circling the flesh about her belly in small, feather-like circles; hard with callusses, yet gentle and warm.
He met her eyes with mild amusement within the depths of his own aqua blues. "Aya."
"…stop looking at me like that." She muttered, reaching out to pinch at his arm.
"Ach!" The captain wrinkled his nose, then pulled her closer, nuzzling bearded chin into her cheek. "Like what?"
She yelped, crying out, half amused and half annoyed as she pushed him away. "Like you want to ravage me—and stop doing that!"
He laughed, tossing his head back to sweep dishevelled, chocolate-brown curls from his eyes. "But I do want to ravage you." His chuckle was a low and husky one as he grinned into her ear. "Again, and again, and again."
"In my culture—" Araeya began, the corners of her lips curling upwards ever so slightly. "—the women are dominant. Which would mean—" Slender fingers trailed along his chest as she rolled over on top of him, her knees on either side of his ribcage. He chuckled in response, lifting a brow to feign mild surprise even as she leaned into his ear. "—that if there were to be any ravaging at all—" And then a pause, before, "—it would be done by me."
"Unfortunately—" She watched as he grinned, then laughed as he lifted warm hands to the sides of her arms to roll her over into the sheets, his weight deliciously warm against her skin as he pinned her against pelts and pillows. "—we are in Lut Gholein. I'm not precisely sure how far Shartara is from here, but rest assured—" His breath was warm upon her neck as he trailed kisses along her shoulder-blades. "—we are far, far away from there."
She froze. Something seemed to click within the depths of her mind, which, in mere seconds, was enveloped in naught but shadow.
Meshif gasped, as though in shock as she, somewhat more roughly than she would've chosen to, pushed him away and off of her, then sat up, backing from her, eyes narrowed in slight concern amidst confusion. One hand reached towards her, as though to offer comfort, but she slapped it away.
He flinched, as though stung. "…I'm sorry."
She swallowed, shaking her head as she sat up, gathering sheets against her chest. Her voice was low in her throat; it was as if her tongue was made of stiffened steel. "It's not you—It's… you said… I just thought of something, is all."
The captain cocked his head slightly, the lines of anxiety deepening within his forehead. "It was something I said…? Aya, wha—?"
"Shartara." She breathed, slumping forward. Her hair obstructed her vision, but she was glad of it, for once; it served well to shield her face from his sight.
There were traces of something like pity in his eyes as he cupped her cheek with his hand, lifting her face to gaze upon her visage. "This has something to do with the yelling." It was not a question.
She shook her head, hating herself by the second as impatience, co-mingled with annoyance flared within her being; she hated pity. "This has nothing to do with the yelling—which, by the way, Saul deserved; and you don't know me, so don't—" Her fingers were clenched in tight fists, nails digging deep into the crevices of her palms. "—don't speak as if you do."
"Maybe I would know you better if you could find it in you to open up just a little bit more." Meshif's voice was cold, though he kept his hand upon her cheek. She had clearly struck a nerve. "I may not know you as well as I should—as I want to, Aya, but even I know something's wrong when it's staring me in the face. You flaunt yourself in every way, yet you shy from the advances of those who want nothing more than to understand. Do you think I am blind to it all? Did you think I would not see the glint of fear in your eyes the night you came to me?"
"Why are you angry?" She grit her teeth, eyes narrowing as she jerked his hand, roughly, from her face.
He scowled. "Why are you?!"
His words struck a resonant chord within her head. For a moment or two, Araeya merely sat, limp-limbed, the scowl upon her face dissipating into nothingness with every passing second. As quickly as it had risen, her temper was sapped away, leaving only an echoing chill in its wake. It had hit her, just then, that Meshif's question held much weight.
She wasn't angry. There were, indeed, a torrent of emotions within her breast; but not anger, no.
Was it fear? No—fear was a different sort of emotion, one that pumped adrenaline through her veins at the speed of a galloping war-horse, so that her heart thumped against her chest as though it would never stop. Was it sorrow, then? If so, where were the tears and darkness amidst shadowed gloom? Where was the gnawing feeling of overwhelming pain and despair? Surely, it could not be sorrow, if she did not feel as she should.
Certainly, it was not anger—nor fear, or grief.
Within the span of time in which she processed her thoughts, Meshif had ceased to frown. If anything at all, the gleam that now burned within his eyes was that of concern and curiousity.
"Well?" His tone was gruff, though it lacked the resentment from before. "Am I to get an answer before breakfast, or shall we sit in bed and berate one another all day?"
"I'm not angry." She scowled in mild annoyance, then shrugged her shoulders slightly.
The captain arched a bushy, unkempt brow, leaning back into plush pillows as he crossed his arms over his torso. "Right. Care to elaborate on that?"
She mirrored his movements, though with just a touch more defiance than was necessary. "On what?"
"Everything." Meshif said, flatly. "You can start by telling me just why you felt the need to yell at Master Vyreant the way you did the other day."
"Why do you care how I yell at him? Is he sharing your bed, too?"
"Just wonderfully, beautifully abrasive, my dear. That isn't getting you out of anything, however, so you may as well begin." He snorted, amusement evident within the depths of his eyes. At present, he reminded her of her father; playful, yet stern. The thought brought the faintest of smiles to her face, though she was not aware of it until the captain pointed it out. "…abrasion with a smile. That's a new one."
"…Dad." The word escaped her mouth before she had even begun to think; but it was too late to recant it, now. Even as his face clouded over in confusion, she sighed, shaking her head. There was nothing for it now—if anyone, she knew, at the very least, that Meshif deserved the truth. "You know…" She began, her voice quiet. "…you remind me of my father. He was—he was my best friend, and we used to do… everything together."
He nodded; he understood. One of the best things about Meshif was his ability to do just that—to understand, and to allow one to speak without interjection.
"My mother, she was—well, if you think I'm abrasive, you might not have suffered her at all. But she loved my dad, and they were married. For a while, they were happy." She swallowed once, her fingers knotting idly at the folds of her coverlet. "He left when I was fifteen; said he'd had enough of her. I never saw him again." Here, she paused, swallowing once—yet once she had begun to speak, she found it difficult to stop. "For years, I lived with the knowledge that my mother drove him away. But she, too, suffered his leaving. She drank a lot, and… well, I got the worst of it."
Wordlessly, he inclinced his head once more. She heard his voice within her head, the meaning reflected within his eyes: Go on. I'm listening.
"Aidan and Wyann were too young—I couldn't let them see their mother the way I saw her. So I sent them off to live with my relatives, and I… I set about trying to repair the damage." Her arms were chilled; she took up a pelt to wrap dark-grey fur about herself. "…it was the least I could do for them. I didn't want them to… to watch as she drank herself into violence and hatred. I didn't want them suffering the same words she had for me."
He was, as of yet, silent; though he reached out and took her hands into his own warm ones, and squeezed gently.
"She killed herself, Meshif." Araeya mumbled. The warmth of his palm was comforting; it made her braver, stronger. "She killed herself and I didn't stop her. And when she was gone, I sat there, in a pool of her blood; I couldn't move." Her voice shook just a touch, but she continued to speak—it was easy, now. "Did you know—of all the times she could've told me—of all the times we were alone together—it was only while her life came to an end that my mother decided she loved me?"
"She didn't decide it just then." It was Meshif's turn to speak, now, though his voice was low. He did not retract his hands. "She's loved you since you were born—only some people can't articulate it the way others do."
"I realise she did, and that's the worst of it. I hated that woman. I hated her when she drove my father away, and I hated her for showing me how she hated me when she didn't love me. I hated her, Meshif, while she lived." Araeya grit her teeth, shuddering slightly as she inhaled, drawing in gulps of the crisp morning air. "But, did you know—when I could finally find it in myself to love her—when I finally realised that she… never hated me…" She paused a moment, bowing her head as she gripped at the hems of her cloak, her knuckles paling as she did so. Beside her, Meshif shifted ever so slightly, his eyes unwavering, upon her. "…by then, it was too late. I'd spent my whole life hating my mother—not knowing…"
"Aya…" His voice was gentle, though now somewhat stricken with concern—but he had every right to it. She had never shown this side of her being to anyone, much less him.
She chuckled darkly, shaking her head as she leaned back, turning, at last to meet his eyes. Her voice shook ever so slightly, but the amazon did not cry—the years had hardened her against the nightmares of her past. "My whole life, Meshif—and I spent one minute of it loving my mother. She was dead the next."
He said nothing, the Captain, as he reached out to take her hands in his own warm ones, then lifted them to his lips to kiss them, his eyes upon hers. For her part, the Amazon was glad of his silence; she did not think she could take his sympathy.
Meshif was not one to offer sympathy.
She smiled the faintest of smiles, squeezing his hands as he lowered them. "You must never speak of this."
His expression was a mirror of quietude and calmness as he inclined his head ever so slightly. His lips curled just a touch, before—"…if you're to travel into the great depths of Aranoch, you're going to need a good breakfast."
"I still don't see why you had to come."
"I've told you time and again, I'm fine!"
"You need to take things slow—your body is still healing!"
"It's been two weeks! If I took it any slower, I'd be a slug!"
"You almost died!"
"Yes, but the point is that I didn't! Aya, tell him!"
"Personally, I think you're both stupid."
"Araeya!"
The amazon chuckled, rolling her eyes as she swept wind-toussled locks from her eyes. Before her, ankle-deep in golden sand were the druid and the Medjai's tia-aldyn, both of which had turned to exclaim their displeasure at her previous words. Their faces were alike; both had foreheads lined with frowns, and the faintest vestiges of scowls upon the sides of their lips. The days spent in their company had confirmed her impressions of the two—they were young in the ways of warfare, though neither could truly be considered inexperienced; they had, after all, defeated the demoness Andariel.
They bickered, as friends often did—but there was something subtle about the way she caught his eyes, just as there was a quiet, yet almost feral hunger in his gaze as he returned her glances in silence. They were, the both of them, obstinate, and far too stubborn to admit defeat. Yet, it was obvious that they loved one another—that much was clear, even to the amazon, who felt herself an outsider in this particular field of sentiments.
It all rather amused her, the endless charade between man and woman. The rules of propriety within the walls of Lut Gholein were born of aristocratic idealogies; she had little tolerence for them. If a man loved a woman, and she, in turn, returned his affections, then it was the will of the Gods that they be allowed to marry. Political bethrothals were foreign notions to her; they meant naught, and were not honoured in the lands of her birth. Yet here within the expanse of Aranoch, she'd discovered, bethrothals were as common to merchants as they were to royalty.
Some part of her emphatised with the Medjai sorceress. To marry into royalty—much less into the royal house of Lut Gholein, where Jerhyn, the handsome, stood the heir, was the dream of many a desert girl; yet to be forcibly put into such a union, when love existed between one and another man, was nothing short of a nightmare.
She, of course, would never concede to such madness.
They'd traveled a day and a night, pressing on in the harshness of weather both scorching hot and chilling cold. It had been an unspoken agreement among the three that they stopped as minimally as was possible, given the circumstances; the forces of hell were not, after all, inclined to rest. Even as the amazon contemplated time, she found herself bathed in the warm, yellow glow of the early morning sun. Across the golden sands of the desert lands, the world began to waken.
Stretching her arms above her head, longbow held tight within the palm of her right hand, Araeya took a deep breath; then blinked as she saw that which the light had come to illuminate.
They were men; tall, and dark, of obvious desert heritage. At least twenty of them stood surrounding the three—and they were armed.
She thought, for a fraction of a second, that she'd imagined their presence; then one of them stood forward, bright-white teeth set in a toothy smile as he bent his body forwards, with an exeggerated flourish of a bow.
"Greetings, wanderers." His words were crisp, though tinged with a distinct desert accent. Dark, olive-green eyes met her own blue-green ones for the briefest of moments, before shifting along the length of her body, as though appraising the worth of what she wore and carried. "My name is Bhrett, and I bid you fair morn'." A dramatic pause, in which he turned towards the sorceress. "And how may we address ye folk?"
Saul was the first to speak; and Araeya was glad to see that he, too, was guarded against them. "We are mere travelers, as you have ascertained. Our names are our business; I fail to see how it should concern you."
"Well, it is customary in Aranoch society to exchange names where necessary." Bhrett rolled his shoulders back slightly, joints clicking as he flexed his fingers about the hilt of his double-edged sabre. "We mean only to be polite."
"And polite you have been." The druid inclined his head towards the other, though his eyes were slightly narrowed. "And if you will excuse us, we have dealings to attend to."
She knew his move before he made it; yet another superficial grin, and the spreading of arms in a show of comradery. The single, diamond-encrusted brooch upon the front of his black-linen turban glinted in the sunlight. "Ah, but we are in no hurry now, are we? Come, join us, travelers; we'll while the morn' away."
"We mean you no disrespect, but really—" It was Cordelia, now, who spoke. There were the faintest tinges of impatience within her voice, as was equally obvious from the slant of her lips. "—but we are in quite a hurry. Please excuse us."
Bhrett was clearly not amused. Thick, dark brows arched themselves in a show of mild displeasure, though this was quickly hidden beneath a low, rumbling snicker as he adjusted his stance. "I wouldn't do that, lass."
Cordelia blinked, slowly, as though she were taking it all in—then frowned. Dust swirled about her legs, caking her boots with golden sand as she turned, slightly, to back away towards Saul. She did not speak—there was no need for words.
"You see—I know you do." Bhrett's smile was taunting, now. "We are not travelers, as you are. Rest assured, your presence elates us—we have not had the company of your kind in quite some time." His cloak; a dark, jade-coloured velvet swirled about his legs as he moved, strode, towards the amazon. She felt hungry eyes upon the curve of her neck, but chose to ignore them—she'd had more than enough experience with lustful glances to know that they were best disregarded. "Such—beautiful young maidens—such flawless complexion as one could but hope to touch."
Even she could sense warning bells when they came. One hand caressed the feathery fletch of an arrow—it hung at her waist, a separate, spare bundle, far easier to reach for as opposed to the full-size quiver strapped to her back.
One arrow; one aim—one second.
"As much as I emphatise with you, Bhrett, I must ask that you maintain your distance of me." Her voice was low, though honey-sweet—a dangerous combination, as any who knew her well would say. She was, after all, an Amazon—a woman's pride resided within the veins of her body. "I should not like to hurt you."
"Ah, yes. Because you, and you, and you—" Bhrett inclined his head lazily towards Saul, who stood, rooted to the ground, his face a mask of disgust and silent anger—for, Cordelia, too, received jeering calls, and suffered the leering of men. "—are so very equipped to thwart our plans."
Cordelia released a low moan, throwing her head back as she rolled her eyes. "Your plans? And what plans might they be?"
He grinned, took a step back to regard all three of them in silence. Lifted a hand to wag a finger. Then paused, his eyes betraying an enigma of amusement as a length of gnarled, golden wood, swathed in crimson silk was passed into his hands. "Nobody." His words were crisp—he knew, full well, what he wanted. What they wanted. "Nobody comes into this part of the desert without a driving force—without purpose. You want something."
"And you believe you have what we want?" There was a touch of frustrated terseness in the way the druid spoke. Overhead, clearly visible in cloudless skies was Ceres, who drifted to and fro, though she was not inclined to land at present.
Bhrett laughed—and his men with him. "I don't believe I have what you want. I know."
"What is it we seek, then?" Cordelia was scowling now; and for a moment or two, Araeya thought she saw the druid recoil in silent terror at the venom in her voice. The thought rather amused her. "If you believe yourself the wiser, then please, enlighten us."
"Treasure, of course. The vastness of riches that lay beneath the desert sands are no more than those who would dig them free of their fetid prisons." A glimmer of avarice passed Bhrett's eyes, but Araeya was blind to it; her eyes lay upon the object within his hand. "We found this gem within the lair of the maggots; nasty stuff. Yes. I know what you're thinking—you want this."
Cordelia narrowed her eyes—she, too, had clearly recognised the relic for what it was. The diagrams within the Horadric scroll were but all too detailed in their descriptions of the mythical Staff of Kings. "You're not going to just give it to us."
"You, Red, are smart." The smirk upon Bhrett's face was one of triumph; the face of a gambler with a winning hand. "Now what do you have that could possibly be of any interest to me?"
She released a long, heavy breath, clearly exasperated as she brushed crimson locks from her eyes. "Look." She began, her voice stern as she motioned towards Saul beside her. "If you want him, you can't have him. We need him around for odd jobs and the like." And then, as an afterthought, "—and for the luggage."
If Saul was stung by her words, he didn't show it—on the contrary, he laughed, in the perfectly cacophonous symphony that was Bhrett's, and his men's laughter. They were, obviously, amused.
"We have ourselves a shrew, men!" Bhrett's words were greeted with a cheering response. "How wonderfully sharp you are, Red!"
Cordelia blinked—then clasped hands over arms, her expression completely deadpan. "I'll make this easy for the both of us. What will you have in the place of that staff?"
"Such pleasures as can be offered to us." Came the answer. His eyes glinted as he, silently, stepped behind the sorceress, leaning into her ear, his voice a loud, rather mocking stage whisper. "I trust you know of what I speak."
She did not flinch—did not move. Araeya found herself applauding Cordelia's gall; though she would have, for her part, punched the smirk from Bhrett's face a long time ago
"I'm sorry." Cordelia's eyes were slanted as she turned her head to regard the man, her voice crisp with subdued disgust. "But you can't have us."
"Then you can't have your relic." Bhrett sighed once, taking a step back as he ran tender fingers along the length of the golden staff. "Easy as that."
Araeya clicked her tongue; impatience had finally gotten the best of her. "We could just take it by force."
Bhrett's eyes shifted in but an instance, mirthful and amused. He lifted the golden staff, then threw it carelessly aside, where one of his men—a tall, lanky one, caught it. Threw aside his cloak to reveal a set of twin scimitars. Drew the blades from within their sheathes, and stared the amazon in the eye. He grinned. "I'd like to see you try."
Author's Note: Hello, hello, hello! I've missed you guys! (I'm sure some of y'all have missed me too.) Once again, I am SO sorry about how long I took—I've just been so busy lately, what with Christmas, Chinese New Year, and the general bustle of starting a new semester. But I did manage to get good grades for last sem, so I'm happy about that, yes.
Alright, so, thanks go out to:
Ophelion, as always, for being here, being brilliant, and for being part of the reason my musenergy never runs out.
Luna, skopde, and Fallen Dragonfly for being so loyal to this fic; I can't tell you guys how much it means to me.
FantasyFreak4Life, Twilight Bunny and DefenderOfMan, thanks so much for your reviews!
Jormund Elver and JupponGatana for the kind reviews. Thanks for reading my fic, and I hope you'll continue to enjoy until the very end!
And last, but not least to Medalia, for the most insightful review. It means so much to me; I'm glad you like my fic, and I'll work on what you pointed out. ^.^
Thanks also to all those of you who fav'ed and alert'ed this fic (besides those already mentioned above!): NiennaFaelivrin, Zanger, Matian and Shadowsndust!
Phew, I hope I didn't miss anyone out. Anyways! Look out for the next chapter, "The Eclipse" for some awesome, butt-kickin' fun, and until then, I'm out!