disclaimer- i do not own Storm Hawks or Deltora Quest.
CHAPTER 4
NIGHT MUSINGS
definitions-
Edolith-in Amihawkian tradition, the fallen consorts of the Amihawkian godly pantheon. If a mortal has a shred of life left upon entering the spirit world, they can fight the Edolith and win to return to life-however, only once, and there is always a price. The mortal must have extremely strong will. Individuals who have passed the Edolith's test have been very few.
Scorothos-the God of the Dead in the Amihawkian pantheon of gods. Often described as oddly benevolent despite appearances, Scorothos can tell without fail what part of the spirit world a spirit deserves to be sentenced to. He favors those who wholeheartedly admit to their guilt.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Lehvahk inhaled a deep breath of air. He'd started to feel hemmed in by the walls of his room, and had resolved to go for a walk.
It was nicer than he had thought it would be. He wandered the countryside around Rithmere, keeping the ship lot in sight. They had decided unanimously to return there for a day, just to gather what they needed.
Unfortunately, thanks to his blunder, they didn't have much to spare. There would have to be rationing. Alone now, Lehvahk bitterly cursed himself for it. "I'm a complete fool. I was a coward, too. I was never that much of a coward before..."
He sighed. The arid, rocky land of the Lapiz Lazuli territory, pleasantly cool at night instead of hot, calmed him down considerably. He had to do better. Had to.
He let himself plop down on a pile of sandstone, next to a stunted, wiry roco-a desert tree famous for surviving the harsh landscape. Letting his gaze detach and fly into the starlit sky, Lehvahk reviewed what he knew about himself.
Wicked shooting skills-check.
Occasionally good jokes-check.
Cheer-check.
Past as a black market dealer-check...
The last one was the problem.
He could remember those days. Running the old firearm stall, having fled from his home in Atmos. What had begun as simply trying to get away from his controlling parents and the Cyclonian war had become more of a bloodbath, a rat race to survive. He'd never been able to fully let his guard down back then-anyone could have stabbed him in the back. The things he had been willing to do had scared the brown blizzarian-he'd killed others in fierce self-defense. It scared him that he didn't think much of it. But then, at least none of them had been innocents, so Lehvahk wasn't too bogged down.
He laughed a little. On Atmos, that kind of action would be considered highly dishonorable. To Deltorans, it was common sense. He was more Deltoran than Atmosian now.
But that had all led directly to his failings in the alley.
I've been trying to hard not to be myself. I've been scared of myself, so I've tried to run away from it...
"I can't anymore." Lehvahk's voice was low, infringed with steel. He pounded one hand with a fist. "I've done bad things, but that doesn't mean I can't use my skills, and my head, and past experience. I need to use those things to actually become a fighter worthy of this team."
The resolve hardened with each word he spoke. Lehvahk nodded, standing up and fist pumping. "I can do this, and still retain the best things about myself."
Lehvahk felt the burden lift from his chest. Tilting his head back, he stared up at the stars with renewed enthusiasm. They twinkled even brighter, reflecting his feelings.
"And I'll become the best at ranged magic, and sharpshooting, that there ever was."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
He was eight, receiving the news. Not through the mail. In the midst of tyrannical rule, Deltora had no such functions, it was a briefly shattered nation...he had heard it from the mouths of others, known after his parents didn't come home after several months.
No parents. He was an orphan, he was alone. He began to steal, left with no choice..
it drew attention. He was found. By a crime leader, a conniving, clever person, offering him shelter. He grew, he became older, he started to like stealing and even killing a few innocents-even as Deltora, free, now rebuilding, began to recoup. The nearly shattered nation, taking it's chance to become strong again.
The spy probe. It turned out to be anything else, the invoker of the explosion. The relief supplies, the people inside, going up in flames. Simply for refusing to give up what little they had to the crime group.
Something snaps. His mind becomes free again, the criminal flees, and after so many years, the son of the Sky Knight partially emerges. The deaths of all in the building is the trigger.
Horror, revulsion. At himself, at everything, at the inferno of a building he had invoked.
Anger, growing, self hate. He charges at the one who caused it, who manipulated, to kill him-to end him-
Pain. It became his world, the sword, cutting deep, grazing his heart. Life bleeding out, the shattering window, the air rushing by, losing himself, ready to die on the pavement. It was after all what he deserved. He should be dead,like the manipulator. It was his damn fault, or was it? Did he want to die, or live, or die-
A sudden presence. Another being, a living being with a heartbeat, catching him. Then blackness.
Gray light. A court ringed by bones. A memory of legend, of stories and tradition, filters in. The Spirit Court, the Death God's court. But he couldn't be dead, couldn't.
An echoing voice. Oddly deep. A skeletal form, a dragon, bones showing, eyes glaring. Skin translucent, wavering between solid and transparent. Redskye. Another one, but a bit too soon, don't you think?
He clenched his fists. Redskye. The name was familiar. Yes. It had to do with him...but why even resist? Should he die in repentance for all those lives?
Scorothos's eyes burn. He shakes his head. He says, no. it is part of my duty to offer you a chance to go back. Face the Edolith, take the price...if you have the will...do you accept?
The rocky Edolith plane. He wonders, standing there, why he had taken the challenge-it begins, he fights, tooth and nail, primal instinct urging him to live-waking up, chest on fire, each heartbeat hurting him-
Fearon jerked awake with a choked yell. "AGGHH! Hrgh...damn.."
The teen cursed again, realizing he had been pressing a palm to his chest during the nightmare. Feeling suddenly trapped by the sheets, he thrashed and kicked them off.
Fearon sighed in relief, letting the extra breathing space help his rational mind return. His fingers rubbed at his collarbone, feeling the beginning of the long scar that marred him from there, across his torso, and down to his hip. The injury that had resulted in his near death.
The nightmare was always bad when it happened. Even after a few years of occasional occurrences, he still couldn't form immunity to it.
The whole experience was as terrifying as ever, complete with the mild depression after returning to life, and the price the Edolith had needed just as real. Fearon wistfully thought of his lost health-he was always oddly tired, plagued by aches expected of people many years older than himself, all day and night. He had mostly numbed them out-but without the medication, even with the tolerance, it got bad enough to prevent him from even moving.
Speaking of….
Fearon dragged a hand across his face and glanced at the clock, still trying to steady his shaky breathing. Ten pm. It had been nine when he had drifted off. The green blue varon sighed, dismally calculating that he had only been asleep an hour.
There was no chance he would be asleep again at all soon. Biting his lip and knowing he had time before the meds wore off, Fearon settled on the one course of action that could calm him. Or rather, the only option that made sense.
He couldn't drink. Tomorrow would be important. The last thing the team needed was a hungover leader, and Fearon knew himself well enough to realize that if he went for the alcohol he would be in bad shape the next day. Standing abruptly, he swept his swords up and yanked the door open.
In what seemed like seconds Fearon was down in the hangar. He hit the manual release button, waiting for the old doors to creak open.
Tomorrow, he'd need to be at his best. The most productive thing to do would be to master the Lightning and Fire enhancement spell...
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxcccccccccccccccccxxxxxxxxxxcccccccccc
in the end, Takar and Fearon were more alike than either cared to admit. For the pilot was going through a similar dream state, having unwillingly nodded off. He hated it when that happened...
The large, empty caverns, with their islands of rock, the waterfalls. Spiritual, outsiders called it...not to him, no, never. Simply the place of torture.
Seven. A mere seven years of age. The other Kerions started to notice how unusual he was. His interest in making things, in creating. How small he was, compared to the others, already almost as tall as if they were thirteen...
You were nothing, even then. The voice, in all it's demeaning sneer. They could tell.
The shunning. The stoning. It started out small. His parents fighting, his mother protecting him, all spitting fangs and flashing claws. Then she comforted him, shielding her child from a rigid, primeval culture whom had rejected the outside world all their existence. The Caverns of Kardas, they felt, was all they needed, their whole world. The culture that only wanted to persecute him...
And why wouldn't they? A weak link should be cut. Even caught up in memories, Takar willed the voice to stop. To silence. To not drive him steadily crazy...
The Day of Culling. The day were the runts were rooted out, where a parent could give their life in exchange...not that any ever had.
But she did. His mother did. He could still remember the arrow, the thud, his anguished scream. The last words.
Live, Takar. That was what she had told him. I did this so you could escape this place one day, find a place for your talents. Promise me.
He cried after that, begging her not to go. Her breath faded, the only one who had ever cared, gone. The looming shadow of the leader, his 'father,' angry that his mate had died for a runt...
A night of beatings. Blood. Aching, crying, trapped in a closet for days at a time, the years going on that way, until he was seventeen. Fraying his sanity, his trust.
The year of adulthood, of trial.
He failed the trial. He remembered, well, that the wild beast had overpowered him. He had been no match with his bare hands...
They whipped him. Ten, twenty times...
Thrown out into the misty cavern, back bleeding. They hadn't bothered to bind the decimated flesh. Hate, sorrow, misery, rejection, blinding. He ran that night, running for the woods.
Getting away, escape. It was all he could think. Running, running. Until he hit something.
Metal, rutted, scarred, thick. Armor. A ship pontoon, faded red paint on it, flaking.
His escape. The Strikeflier, even if he hadn't known it's name them...
He had fixed it, mostly. With nothing more than the meager, old materials aboard, pushing the limits of his scant experience. Discovering he was actually good at something-at tech and machinery. Given the carrier the wings to fly out, to undergo a fair amount of recovery...the same could not be said for him...
Of course not. You said it yourself, bastard. You are a wreck, a runt. No one-
"Shut the fuck up!" Takar jolted awake, his tentative doze having become what he didn't want-the memories, flashing by fast, but not fast enough to block out the pain. And of course the voice had followed after.
Takar rocked back into a sitting position. "Get out of my head..." he growled, panting. "Get out..."
His head and shoulder hurt where they had been pressing against the smooth side of the control panels, on the flat side that supported access doors, just beside the flight interface. Raking his hands through his hair, Takar locked himself into a fetal position, blindly staring at the currently revealed circuit's and wires of the Strikeflier with wide eyes. Letting the soothing blue and hum of circuits calm him down, he frantically began to try and vanquish the voice.
Go away, go away. Just leave me alone, just for now, voice.
The images receded. Takar allowed his frame to relax, letting out a long breath. The whip scars were still stinging, but that always took a bit to calm down...
He took another shuddering breath. Now able to focus on the aftermath, Takar bleakly wondered if he could confide in anyone. This had happened once before-Lehvahk had heard, and had ended up talking with him.
Yet Takar hadn't told Lehvahk anything in the end, really. Nothing about what had really upset him. Were the people around him friends, comrades, or family? He couldn't figure it out. They were all hiding things, even if they weren't as mentally unstable as Takar was. He wanted them to trust him, but why would they?
Takar buried his head in his hands. He couldn't bring himself to trust the others with his secrets. He let out a little, sadistic laugh at the irony. It came out more as a hoarse bark, barely recognizable as his own voice.
Then again...
"I'll reserve judgment on these idiots," he muttered. "Maybe they can heal someone like me..."
He would like an actual family, after all...
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Brendon busily flipped through his book, eyes devouring text. Reading had always been his thing-his refuge. He was, as Lehvahk liked to call him, a living encyclopedia. His studious habits had helped save him from the dark pit of his early abandonment.
Being the half breed he was-a term that was bitter even when uttered to himself-it wasn't altogether surprising when he had been abandoned. He remembered nothing of his blizzarian parent-only the draconic one, vanishing into the sky on her broad wings. Where the dragoness had gone had never been something he had cared to find out. The sting of betrayal was too haunting, too painful, to revisit.
As it was, the result could have been worse. He had ended up being adopted by the keeper of the Amur Sarquis, the Great Librarium, and had practically grown up in bookworm, history buff heaven.
The building had always been a mysterious enigma, never fully understood. It was known to have several powers, only one or two of which had ever been observed-the ability to phase in and out of reality. The Librarium wrote its own books, gathered its own artifacts and bones, through means that could only be described as mystical.
Despite the ambiguous characteristics of the structure, it was heavily respected-the last known gift from the gods before they had retreated from the mortal plane after Amihawk's beginning. Ever expanding, ever collecting, the librarium contained the history of every inhabited world in the universe, in books, tomes, skeletons, artifacts, with complete accuracy.
Brendon sighed, just slightly wistful. The Great Librarium had an effect on all who entered-while there, the world faded away. The visitor always felt compelled to seek more knowledge. The air, thick with the smell of paper and wood, invoked a simple peace, one some were reluctant to leave. That was especially true depending on how much turmoil such beings had within them.
The gray draconic blizzarian paused in his reading. His childhood refuge had also been where he had first met Fearon and Somra, where he had first begun to dream of living the daredevil life of a sky knight squad and mercenaries. The moment was etched in sharp clarity, right in his mind.
And now he was living it.
He shook his head. I'm getting too distracted. Focus up, Brendon.
The tide of thoughts had led right back to the current challenge ahead of them, the Shifting Sands and the Hive. The latter was laid out in text before him, all the legends and known facts complimented by pictures. The book didn't make the Hive sound any less daunting-if anything, it intimidated the mage more. Brendon wasn't going to cringe from admitting that. The Hive was something anyone should fear, but...
Courage is important, too. But one can't have courage without fear.
Brendon rested his fingers on his temple. "I'll spend the night reciting spells," he muttered, smiling slightly and conviction mounted. "And...reading up on the Shifting Sands."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The light from the sparks of Somra's soldering rod lit her face. A pair of protective glasses sat on her nose as she slowly and carefully melted shut the careful incision on the bomb. It was large, too big for her to carry-really, it was part of a collaborative effort between her and Takar to get ready.
The thing had taken effort to make-they were only likely to break it out when they found themselves at the Hive. No one had said it aloud, but the general, grim understanding was that the chase would lead to the dread place in the desert's center. Inevitably, eventually.
Her hand fell limp as the last part of the opening was sealed. Her mind began to drift as Somra stared at the photo-her family, the day when she had still been six, still had her family.
Parents gone, the caravan burning. The coward younger brother, running, disappearing. Hours later, stumbling through the dark. Cruel, blank faces. Slave drivers, come to take her, to find pickings among the rubble.
They made her work-made her serve their needs. They would hit her, enjoy her pain, and then watch as she scrubbed, to protect herself, and her sick younger brother. So small, frail...
The day came when she was thirteen. Shouting, yelling, the slave drivers tried to resist as the military bore down on them...she watched, a lost little ghost child. Ravenged by grief, her brother...Kurahk...
A familiar face, lined and sad eyed, grief prominent. Her grandmother. Just one look shows she has lost everything as well. Everything but her granddaughter.
She watches as her grandmother closes Kurahk's eyes. Failure and denial wash over her. This was her failing. Her younger brother had counted on her...
She had let him down. Crumpling, letting her only remaining family member comfort her, she had cried-emptying out the pool of her shredded feelings...
Somra jolted awake when her chin made contact with the desk. She scowled at it, blearily thinking that the bed sounded nice.
The weapons specialist hugged her shoulders, trying to forget what she had just recalled. She didn't want to fall asleep to that-it would end up being in her head all night.
The teen shuddered one last time, the air conditioning suddenly feeling to cold. She abruptly laid everything down and pulled her sleeping robe closer, shuffling over to the bed. Sinking down into the folds of the blankets, Somra tried to turn her thoughts to a better place. Instantly they ended up in the long blank red sands of the desert, wonder at its savagery, and at the things that lurked there.
Somra fell asleep with the thrill of battle singing in her blood, the picture of her family watching over her….
Feedback is very wanted and appreciated. special thanks to GreyWolfDruid for bieng a steady reviewer-the sotry still isnt done, and the final chapter or two is still being written. the whole thing has taken me several months to compile. keep in mind all writers really like to hear what people think of works they have put hard work and love into :D
just checked and realized some anonymous ppl had reviewed- thx enormously for the support :D