#kioske

Kioske’s vision went a blinding white, and memories, now mocking, whispered past his ears. His confession, one night, and the way Arista’s warm hands had gripped his shoulders.

“I promise you,” she had whispered. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

And she had taught him, showed him ways to bring the Shade to heel. Crafted arrowheads out of a power that would force the Shade back and even kill it, and showed him how to make more of his own.

In the prison of his mind, his father’s voice laughed at him as he swore Kioske could never escape, but it was his uncle’s weak, tired voice that whispered his disappointment that caused tears to spring to Kioske’s eyes.

He had an arrow notched before he even realized. His hands shook as the Shade that leapt from Arista’s control tore the intruder in half.

Arista’s blonde braid was messier than he had ever seen it. Parts of it were still the mane of her dragon’s form, and it hit the side of her neck with a loud smack as she spun to face him.

“Kioske,” she breathed, and gone was the darkness that had sprung from her claws. Kioske felt his stomach churn. How easy it was for monsters to hide in plain sight.

“When I put this through your head,” Kioske said. “Will it actually kill you, or were you lying about that too?”

Tears formed at the corner of Arista’s eyes. “I’m not a Shade-beast, Kioske,” she said. “And even if I was, that would still kill me.”

He should really take the shot. “You lied to me,” he said instead.

Arista hesitated for no longer than a heartbeat before she spoke. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t want to, but you don’t know… I haven’t told you…”

Her fists clenched and Kioske’s grip on his bow tightened until he could feel his bones grind together. She, slowly, unclenched her fists and stared at him.

“Kioske,” she said softly. “I’m sorry I lied, and I’m sorry you found out like this, but I am not going to die here. I won’t let you kill me.”

“And you think, knowing what you know about where I come from, I’m just going to let a thing like you live?”

Arista leaned forward, her golden eyes bright. “You don’t know what I am, Kioske,” she said. “Please, I promise you I’m nothing like any Shade-creature you’ve seen before. Put down the bow, and I can explain--”

Kioske took the shot.

He stared as Arista’s mouth fell open, as the arrow cut through the air on a straight path to the center of her chest. Blinding light exploded and that was the last thing he saw.

Kioske woke with a weight on his chest. He blinked unconsciousness out of his eyes as quickly as he could, and looked down. A red-tinged rock sat firmly on his torso. Something sharp dug into his skin, and he winced and closed his eyes.

His concentration did its best to scorn him, and stay out of his grasp. But eventually, he brought it under control, and before his blood could stain the Wasteland’s soil redder than it already was, he was in his dragon’s form.

The rock slid easily off his chest then, and he pushed himself to his feet, muttering a quick spell to close the shallow gash in his side.

Gone was the cave he and Arista had spent the last few nights in. He squinted against the sun’s harsh rays and sent quick thanks to the Plaguebringer for his safety; looking around, it was hard to believe the entire cave had been decimated and he had still survived.

Finally, his gaze fell on Arista’s body. Whether she had managed the shift before her death, or if her body had naturally returned to the same form she was hatched in upon her death, Kioske did not know, but Arista’s corpse was that of a Pearlcatcher’s.

She had fallen backwards with the force of the arrow and the explosion and her wings were splayed completely out. The arrow had buried itself in her chest. Where she had fallen was ringed in a bright, yellow light imprinted into the earth that still gleamed ever so slightly in the sun. Regret might have stirred in Kioske’s numbed body then, if he had not looked closer. As it was, his eyes caught on the very edges of the ring, were the light abruptly gave way to black.

As it was, Kioske did not stop to mourn what he told himself was a falsity of a friend. As it was, Kioske spread his wings and took to the sky.

If he stayed just seconds longer, he would have seen her chest rise.

Chains did not live. Her power did not work on them, and so they were much more difficult to slip.

When she crossed to the land of Shadow, it became easier. Those used to living in the Light would not be able to so easily tell the difference from Shadows naturally dark wildlife and the dead ones she left in her wake. She could tell, of course, for the ones that were on her conscious were always a little duller than the rest.

Once she made it through the Shadows and to the Plague, her heart beat easier. Dening to go through the land of darkness was bad enough in the minds of those who would chase her, but the land of filth? None of them would dare step foot there.

Finally, a reprieve of the fear that had dogged her steps. She knew it was not wise, but she could not help the increasing lightness she felt in her heart. And she smiled, too, for now the wildlife would not die beneath her touch. No, even the tough, harsh life of the Wasteland began to flower.

One day, she knelt, amongst the weeds of the Contagion. She brushed her fingers, gently, across one, and closed her eyes, content, when it began to sprout small, sickly green buds.

“You are no Nature dragon.”

She stood, her hand flying to the scrap of cloth that covered her eyes. A quick, whispered spell was all she needed to see through it.

He was small, much smaller than she, but she was still weak and his muscle definition was plain to see. A hard fight, certainly, but not yet one she would deem impossible. She tensed as his hands came up, but he simply raised them to be level with his head, uncurled his fingers, and smiled.

“I’ve never seen anyone do that who's born element wasn’t Nature in the Plaguelands,” he said.

His eyes were the glowing red of the Wasteland, but her eyes found the bird that calmly rustled its feathers on its perch on the brim of his hat.

“You know many Nature dragons?” she asked. Her voice cracked from disuse.

He tilted his head and a flash of sorrow crossed his face. “I did,” he said. The bird let out a sad squawk.

He took his first two steps forward slowly, his hands still raised. She backed a half step away, but did not try to stop him when he knelt beside her. He cupped his hand over the weed she had touched, and closed his eyes tightly.

When he pulled his hand away, the buds had sprouted into full bloom, though they hadn’t lost their sickly coloring. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Where do you learn this?” she asked.

“A friend taught me, as a child,” he said. Like the buds, disappointment bloomed inside her chest. “I think she just wanted me to have a little life in my childhood.”

He stilled, then, and she quickly made the choice to not ask him about that strange statement. He brushed his hands on his robe, and stood.

“I never took to it all that well. I’m glad I still remember how to do it at all.” Before she could say another word, he stretched out a hand. “I’m Kioske,” he said.

She curled her fingers behind her back and didn’t take his hand. But she smiled.

“I am Arista,” she said.

Volya lets out a loud chirp from behind him and Kioske swings toward her with a wide grin on his face. His beautiful, little green bird, hatched from the egg that Kava gave him when he was young. He gave her that name and Kava had whispered what it meant in his ear, telling him he must be careful with those kind of thoughts. Still, he had insisted, and he was fairly sure Kava was proud of him for it.

Now Volya was hungry. He tells her to hold on, complaining that she is always so impatient when it comes to food (and ignoring that she takes after him in that regard) and reaches into the pouch he tucks away each night before he goes to bed. He shakes out several seeds and insects that he had snuck away from his dinner the night before. Volya, ridiculous bird she is, sets upon them with a vengeance.

Kioske rolls his eyes at her antics and dresses in simple, worn clothes before heading down to the training fields with Toci.

As always, the session was brutal, almost as brutal as Toci herself. Still, Kioske dares to think he’s getting close to her level, before he makes himself shake that thought out of his head. He reminds himself to be careful thinking things like that; Toci has a sixth sense for them and has proven before she will knock him on his ass even if he doesn’t say it aloud.

Kioske heads back to his room, pushing the wisps of hair that had fallen out of his braids during the session behind his ears. Back in his rooms, he throws himself down at the chair that sits in front of his desk and looks to the food he had left Volya earlier.

It’s gone; that’s not a surprise, but what does surprise him is just how clean the room is. Kioske isn’t messy by any means, but he’s never cared enough to arrange his room to be quite this ematiculate.

And, most importantly, Volya is nowhere to be seen.

Kioske places a hand on his desk, rising slowly as his red eyes dart around the room. His fingers brush something.

He glances down, and spies a rolled up piece of paper that has his name carefully scrawled on the front, and definitely wasn’t there when he left that morning. He unrolls the scroll hesitantly and reads it slowly, ignoring the way his heart jumps in his chest until he reaches the very end.

It was summons, from his father. The very first time they had ever come for him.

Toci had spent his entire life whispering warnings and curses about his father in his ear. Kava and Watcher both had the same grim, shuttered look cross their face whenever Kioske had asked about him.

Kioske had always known his father wasn’t good. He knows there is some truth to the words Toci would spit about him, and he knows there are reasons for the looks upon the faces of Kava and Watcher. And yet, he could not help but crave his father’s attention.

Watcher and Kava had always been so kind to him, taking care of him and loving him. Toci had always been there for him, and he knows she loves him in her own way. But Kioske’s mother has never been there, and he could not help but wish for his own father to look at him with the pride of Toci, the softness of Kava, or the love of Watcher.

This, this was Kioske’s chance. So, ignoring the warnings in his head that sounded suspiciously like Kava, and the warning in his gut that felt suspiciously like a punch from Toci, he unwound his braids, gently brushing them out, and doing them up again. This time, when he finishes with a last look in the mirror, he tries to tell himself the feeling that holds an iron grip on his heart is excitement, not fear.

His father greets him in the throne room with a huge smile on his face. Kioske grins back and listens to his father talk about how pleased he is that Kioske had grown so strong and so capable. Kioske thanks him for each bit of praise he lavishes on as Betsalel leads him past the throne, to a room he had never been in before.

Huge, opulent mirrors line the walls of the room, with a stool positioned in front of them and a table pushed towards the back wall, covered in papers, fabric, and a few parcels. Betsalel hurries him inside, places a hand upon one of the parcels, and tells him that he has a present for him.

Betsalel hangs back as Kioske undresses, but steps forward when Kioske’s last bit of clothing falls to the ground. He offers a hand of Kioske, helping him on the stool.

Betsalel steps back, opening the parcel and pulls out a pair of long, silk tunics, red and blue. He asks Kioske what he thinks, and Kioske can only respond with a smile and a soft, “they’re lovely.”

The smile his father gives him in return is the first time his skin crawls, but not the last.

Betsalel draps the tunics around Kioske himself. The silk is soft and almost cool on his skin, but wherever his father’s fingers trail, Kioske can feel his skin crawl and burn and he holds back his instinct to flinch away.

“Nothing but the best for my son!” Betsalel proclaims when he finishes, taking just a small step back. Kioske lets out a soft breath that he hopes his father can’t hear, but his heart stutters to a stop not a moment later, when Betsalel drags his fingers up his neck, and slices the hair tie that is keeping his hair and braids pulled away from his face.

It feels like being in the center of a storm in the Icefields. Kioske’s feels his hair fall in waves on his face and down to his shoulders, and he sees his braids coming undone in the corner of his eyes. He feels so numb he barely notices when his father grabs his chin and says lowly,

“Now isn’t that a pretty sight?”

Kioske stumbles out of the room not too long later, clutching his new tunics to chest, ignoring how the room blurs, and trying to convince himself that the tense, burning he feels on his back isn’t his father’s eyes following him.

He finds himself at the door to Watcher’s room before he realizes where he’s going, and as he reaches to knock, he notices his hands are shaking.