#silvywrites

Tagged by: @cenedrariva​

Rules: List the first lines of the last ten (10) stories you published. Look to see any patterns you notice yourself, and see if anyone else notices any. Then tag some friends.

1) Heaven Has A Road But No One Walks It (The Untamed)

Xiao Xingchen was breathing.

Shallow, erratic breaths, one slowly following another, but in the absolute silence of the dead city even the whisper of sound was unmistakable.

The scene seemed an inverted funeral, the white-shrouded body surrounded by two dark-robed figures and one in pure white, bearing witness as the dead eased its way back into the world of the living.

On his slowly rising and falling chest rested a pouch inscribed with quickly fading sigils, collapsing in on itself as though the precious thing held inside for so long had finally gone. Leaving it as empty a shell as the body beneath it had been up until a few moments ago.

One of Xiao Xingchen's hands twitched lightly.

2) High Noon In Deserted City (The Untamed)

Dust swirled on the wind, grit grating between Song Lan's teeth as he squinted against the relentless sunlight. Somewhere in the distance, an old window shutter slammed opened and closed, a wailing creak of rusted hinges between sharp knocks of wood on wood. Everything else in the ghost town was silent.

Had been silent, until the quiet was broken by laughter, delighted and just a touch more unhinged than the old window shutters.

”Two of you! What a pleasant surprise! You came all the way out here just for me?”

”Xue Yang. You are under arrest for the recent Chang stagecoach robberies. I would advise you to come quietly.”

”We would prefer not to have to resort to violence,” the lone ranger beside him said, voice polite, even pleasant. If anything it made the outlaw laugh more.

”No violence? But where's the fun in that?”

”You're cornered, there is nowhere left to go. Turn yourself over peacefully, and you will have a fair trial.”

Xue Yang grinned at them, a conniving coyote, flashing too-sharp canines.

”'Peaceful', 'fair'... Such boring words, Sheriff Song! Your pretty posters do say 'dead or alive', so you'll at least try not to kill me...  I  have no such qualms about  you  – it's 'dead' all the way! Meaning I like my odds better than yours.”

3) Self-inflicted (The Untamed)

Xue Yang was roaring drunk.

He'd been respectful enough to wait until after the funeral. After meticulously washing the whole body and dressing Xiao Xingchen up in his cleanest, whitest robes – folded right over left. After tying on a fresh piece of cloth over his eyes, that would never need changing again.

Then he'd hit the liquor, hard.

He'd tried every spell he knew, every talisman, every sigil and sacrifice, each and every one, several times. The spirit-capturing pouch held something, some small sliver of a broken thing, but it just wouldn't answer, wouldn't be tied back into the dead body.

He had spent every second of the last four days exhausting every last piece of knowledge, every increasingly controversial idea, every last desperate angle, over and over and over.

He hadn't slept.

4) And To Many More (The Untamed)

”It’s really unfair,” a-Qing pouted one day, as they were walking down the market street, smacking her bamboo pole against the ground a little harder than necessary. Chengmei snorted at her.

”Everything in the world’s unfair, Little Blind. You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

She scowled and not-so-accidentally swooped the cane in his direction, scoring a perfect smack against one shin, making him hiss and narrow his eyes at her.

”A-Qing,” Xiao Xingchen said, in mild reproach, but he was smiling.

”The birthday party we walked past,” she elaborated.”People getting gifts and good food and tiger shoes just because they happen to know what day they’re born. Unfair!”

Chengmei rolled his eyes, which was stupid, since none of his companions would be able to see it anyway.

5) Eaten (The Untamed)

If possible, the city looked even more deserted than the last time they came, no sound to be heard but the forlorn wind. Even the ever-present funeral decorations were ravaged by the elements, only some few sad strips of paper still fluttering on the breeze.

Instinctively, Lan Sizhui held his breath as he stepped through the gates followed by his friends, certain past lessons ingrained on pain of congee. He almost laughed at that, allowed himself to exhale.

There would be no poison now. Yi City was truly deserted, and the only demons to haunt it were the howling restless ghosts of the dead.

It hadn't been that long, but the world had been shaken to the core since they were last here, and it felt like years had passed.

”Such a dirty place,” he heard Jin Ling, Clan Leader Jin now, sniff sullenly behind him, kicking at the sunken remains of paper dolls in a dusty corner.

”Be respectful,” he gently admonished. ”We're here to settle the lingering spirits, not make them more upset.” An offended huff was his only reply, but the young lord called Fairy to his side and kept quiet.

They weren't quite the children they had been when they had walked these streets the first time, or at least they would like to tell themselves as much.

6) Blanket Statement (The Untamed)

Winters were cold in the coffin house. Despite all their best efforts - and they had put in many long days of effort turning the abandoned building into a proper house, a home - the place was still drafty. Chengmei had taken the triumph of the elements as a personal affront and darkly vowed to get material for another layer of insulation at next given opportunity.

But like this, wrapped up in a soft blanket, with a warm pliant body snuggled up close, it wasn't cold at all, Xiao Xingchen concluded, and buried his sleepy smile into soft hair. Birdsong outside told him dawn had broken, and it was time to get up, it really was, but he could allow himself to stay like this just a little longer. If he waited, his companion would wake up, and he was never more warm and pliable than when freshly woken. Definitely worth staying in bed a little longer for.

The man muttered something inaudible and turned around in his arms, dragging the blanket with him, and suddenly it was cold. Torn abruptly from his thoughts, Xiao Xingchen gave a gasping laugh.

”Xue Yang! Don't take all the blankets for yourself!”

He felt the body next to him stiffen suddenly, all drowsiness gone from it in an instant, and the lazy heartbeat he had felt against his hands was suddenly racing. There was a moment of complete stillness, not even breathing disturbing the silence. He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, and only then did it hit him what he had said.

”What did you call me?”

7) Glimpses (Pangaea)

The snowdrifts are cold enough to burn against his face, as soft as the hands holding him down are hard. Ropes tightening around his wrists again, biting into familiar grooves. It hurts – one would think it a pain he’d be used to by now. A sack is none-too gently pulled over his head and he’s blinded and disoriented when he’s roughly pulled to his feet.

”Take him away,” he hears the furious croak of the woman commander against whose throat he held a blade but mere moments ago. He could so easily have slit her throat – would have, had it guaranteed him the escape he sought. But already surrounded, there was really little point. He would have done it anyway, not so long ago, violence as given as breathing - he wasn’t sure when that had changed. ”Lock him up tight. He’s dangerous.”

If only you knew, he thinks, and almost laughs, but the laughter turns dry and chafing at the back of his throat, sobs barely held back as he’s hauled off, feet numbly stumbling and dragging through the snow.

8) Don’t Let The Groom Run Away (Pangaea)

“Is the collar straight?”

Restless fidgeting. The older man’s hands steady as they minutely adjust the heavy metal wings holding the even heavier cloak in place. Something suspiciously akin to a look of amusement on his face.

“It will be if you stand still.”

The king all but freezes, but only for a few moments before he unthinkingly moves again, shrugging against the weight.

“Nervous?” asks his uncle to distract him, tone unusually gentle. A harsh exhale, for a moment a cornered look in the younger man’s eyes.

“More nervous than I have ever been in my life.”

A confession that should have been reluctant, but comes across as all too genuine. Again that almost-smile on Rannon’s lips, knowing more than most of what said life has entailed, and what this moment is measured against.

9) Returning The Blades (Pangaea)

“I have been told countless times how these blades are the epitome symbols of the truest virtues of Kayalana,” Rylerion said, lifting the pair of blades from their stand to hold them between them. “Marks of absolute dedication to duty, to honour. After what happened, do you still feel you deserve to bear them?”

It took Rannon uncharacteristically long to reply, and for all his stoicism there were lines of pain around his eyes when he finally forced himself to.

“No.”

He had to admit he had anticipated negotiation, the smooth but unwavering manipulation he had clashed with so many times before. The short, harsh reply took him somewhat aback, and he found himself wondering again if he would ever really understand this man.

10) A Game Well Played (Pangaea)

“May I have a word with you, Sati Lazuli..?”

“But of course, Sati Narcissus. I always do so enjoy our conversations.”

The din turned only slightly less deafening as they made their way into the fresh night air of the gardens, moving with the very studied casual grace of two men expecting a dagger to the back at any moment.

“Our beloved Rava certainly knows how to throw a party, doesn’t she..?” Lazuli commented, turning to face his bitter rival with a benign smile.

“Oh, yes,” Narcissus agreed, smile every bit as sweet. “The Festival of Five Flowers this last spring? Absolutely inspired! I will have to admit, these last few years of sparring with you in all the golden halls of Machra-la have been entertaining beyond measure.”

“Past tense..?” Lazuli commented, a sudden sharpness to the unwavering smile.

“Mmm. A few minor technicalities aside, I would say our glorious rivalry is reaching its end. The dance of the aristocracy this evening only made clear the inevitable - they flock to you like moths to the moons. I owe you congratulations. Watching you play has been magnificent.”

“And yet,“ Lazuli pointed out, ”Saya-rehu Rava is still very much wearing the crown and the party is far from over. I think you may be a bit premature in your congratulation, Sati Narcissus.”

Narcissus’ smile turned sweeter still, ember eyes momentarily veiled by thick lashes.

“Oh, I think we can both tell where the wind is blowing, Sati Lazuli, and neither of us are the kind of man to wait for fortune to make its call. I have little choice left tonight but to surrender to you or kill you.”

“May I have a word with you, Sati Lazuli..?”

“But of course, Sati Narcissus. I always do so enjoy our conversations.”

The din turned only slightly less deafening as they made their way into the fresh night air of the gardens, moving with the very studied casual grace of two men expecting a dagger to the back at any moment.

“Our beloved Rava certainly knows how to throw a party, doesn’t she..?” Lazuli commented, turning to face his bitter rival with a benign smile.

“Oh, yes,” Narcissus agreed, smile every bit as sweet. “The Festival of Five Flowers this last spring? Absolutely inspired! I will have to admit, these last few years of sparring with you in all the golden halls of Machra-la have been entertaining beyond measure.”

“Past tense..?” Lazuli commented, a sudden sharpness to the unwavering smile.

“Mmm. A few minor technicalities aside, I would say our glorious rivalry is reaching its end. The dance of the aristocracy this evening only made clear the inevitable - they flock to you like moths to the moons. I owe you congratulations. Watching you play has been magnificent.”

“And yet,“ Lazuli pointed out, ”Saya-rehu Rava is still very much wearing the crown and the party is far from over. I think you may be a bit premature in your congratulation, Sati Narcissus.”

Narcissus’ smile turned sweeter still, ember eyes momentarily veiled by thick lashes.

“Oh, I think we can both tell where the wind is blowing, Sati Lazuli, and neither of us are the kind of man to wait for fortune to make its call. I have little choice left tonight but to surrender to you or kill you.”

Lazuli’s brows quirked, smile still on his lips, but a subtle shift of wariness crept into his stance.

“How unusually straightforward! So tell me, dear friend, which will it be?”

Narcissus hesitated for a moment, as though making his final decision right then and there. Then, slowly and unthreateningly, not being a fool after all, he produced a delicate vial from his sleeve and held it out. Lazuli made no move to touch it.

“What is it?”

“Antidote,” Narcissus told him, serenely. “To the niphrith I had put on the goblet you drank from not half an hour ago.”

Blue eyes suddenly narrowing, Lazuli still didn’t move.

“It’s slow-working, as you no doubt know. You wouldn’t even feel it until around dawn, at which time it would unfortunately be too late. It does mean, though, dear friend, that you have plenty of time to let a healer confirm what I’m telling you, and get your antidote from somewhere else, should you so wish. It would be faster if you would accept it from me, of course. And lessen risk for unfortunate lingering side-effects.”

“Unless,” said Lazuli, matter-of-factly, still smiling, “What you’re offering me is actually the poison.”

Narcissus laughed, a pleasant warm sound.

“Of course! A rising ruler of Machra-la needs a keen sense of judgment, wouldn’t you agree? You make the choice yourself, my friend. All I humbly ask is that you remember this moment when you put that crown atop your lovely blue hair. That our grand game might have ended differently, had I only chosen so. Oh, who knows? You might have been warned, recognized the symptoms, survived to take gruesome vengeance even had I opted not to tell you this. But I did. Consider it my first act of servitude to you, Sati-rehu Lazuli, Lord of Machra-la - and this my humble gift of celebration.”

The hand holding out the small vial was utterly steady, as were his fire-colored eyes. Lazuli held his gaze for a long scrutinizing moment, then relaxed and reached out to accept the offered draught of life. Without any further hesitation he removed the stopper and swallowed the oily contents, making a face at the expected bitterness.

“You play with high stakes, Sati Narcissus,” he concluded after a few moments of heavy silence, somewhat acerbically, but with a thoughtful look on his face.

“What other games are worth playing..?” asked his once-rival with an elegant bow, an impeccable display of submission before a ruling lord. He smiled sharply at that.

“You are still somewhat premature in your congratulations and obeisances, my friend, appreciated as they are.”

Narcissus tilted his head, and for a fraction of a moment there was a hard darkness glimpsed beyond the honeyed smile.

“I should think not. Yours was not the only goblet kissed by death tonight. Our most beloved Rava has been wondrous company, and shall be genuinely missed. But lest you decide to interfere, knowing now what you know, the throne should be empty and awaiting you tomorrow morning.”

With another, final bow the young nobleman nodded knowingly at him, and drifted back through the curtains inside, for a final dance with their beloved benefactor.

They both knew she would be dead before sunrise.

-----------------------

So, uh... yeah. I don’t even know if this is canon now or what ?? ? but the gentlemen in question were being talkative and I wanted to get it out there. Yay?

Ebenholtz is so pissed. So very pissed. “If you were close enough to actually poison him, why didn’t you just let him die??” she argues. And Narcissus agrees this is a good point, a very good point, but - “Even if I did let the poison runt its course, and had him buried in the deepest of graves, impaled on twenty iron rods, with a dagger through his heart, could you be absolutely sure he wouldn’t come back out of sheer spite and kill you horribly..?”

She came across the boy in the palace gardens below the council chamber, sitting on a bench with his face turned towards the flowering trees above, kicking his feet. His face was open and he was smiling, as though nothing could possibly make him more content in this world than just sitting in the sun and listening to the birds on the breeze.

Curious in spite of herself, she walked closer, and he turned his smile on her.

”Hi.”

”You must be Karaon,” she stated, as though there could possibly be any doubt about his identity. A younger version of a face she hated, those same grey eyes, but softer, warmer. He nodded and stood, performing a rather clumsy, unpracticed version of a nobleman’s bow.

”Yes. My name is Karaon. ZanTaoyaka. Except they haven’t decided yet if I may use that name. Mother says I should, though. That it’s my legacy. Pleased to meet you!”

That last part seemed genuinely pleased, following his thoughtful musings, and his smile was dangerously contagious. She gave a serious bow in return.

”I am Keelavata Dashkarisna. Shanti of the Lynx and one of your grandfather’s advisors on the King’s Council. I’m pleased to meet you, too.”

His smile widened.

”My father is a member of the Council, too!” he stated, and it tore at her heart that he sounded proud about it.

”Yes,” she agreed, cautiously. ”As is your mother. We have all known each other for a very long time.”

He nodded.

”Then we should be friends.”

The innocence of the smile he turned on her blinded her with its simple sincerity. Not the boy’s fault that he looked at her with pale grey eyes.

”I suppose we should,” she found herself answering. Isokell’s son, she thought to herself. I can be friends with Isokell’s son, if not his.

”Shanti,” he said, thoughtfully, looking curiously at her armour and blades. ”That’s a warrior leader, isn’t it?”

”Yes,” she replied. ”I had to step up and lead the Lynx legions as we lost our leaders one by one during the War. My father was a Shantu, too, the Lion himself. He… was a friend of your father’s once.”

”Oh. I didn’t think my father had a lot of friends,” the boy said, and she shouldn’t have laughed out loud at that, but she couldn’t help herself.

”No, I imagine not. He… died. It was a very long time ago.”

He looked vaguely confused at her suddenly tight voice, but soon shrugged it off, all smiles again.

”Do you like zenaqet? Now that we’re friends, we should play sometime.”

She almost rolled her eyes at that, of course the child would be a zenaqet-player.

”I suppose your father taught you?”

”No,” he said. ”Mother did.” Then a mischievous smile.”I did beat him once, though.”

She felt her eyebrows rise at that.

”You defeated Rannon ZanTaoyaka at zenaqet? You? A boy?”

He nodded, clearly very pleased at her reaction.

”Yes! He didn’t know I could already play and tried to teach me. He said I was very clever to utilize my opponent’s lack of insight to my own advantage. That being underestimated gives you an angle, and that you should always look for weaknesses to exploit. I think that means you should be sneaky,” he concluded, and she laughed again, helplessly realizing she liked this child.

”Well, then you have just given away your game, young man,” she told him. ”Now that I know you are a good player, I won’t fall for your sneaky tricks.”

He looked mortified, but seeing her smile he pressed his hands to his mouth and laughed.

”I need to practice being sneakier!” he said, and she wondered if she would come to regret inspiring such sentiment in this clever child.

A sound made her look up, spotting an all too familiar silhouette on the garden path ten paces behind the boy. That same face, but older, harder. Pale eyes taking in the scene, and the look that swept across his face for a moment before it was harshly bitten back was something she’d never thought she’d see on those haughty features.

Dread.

She realized, then, what it must look like to her enemy, her standing there with hand habitually rested on her sword, close enough to touch the child.

”Karaon,” Rannon said, and his voice was steady but tense. ”Come away from there.”

The boy looked up with a smile at his father’s voice, then faltered at the grim look in his eyes.

”We were only talking, father. This is Keelavata. She’s my friend.”

”Yes,” she said, casually, couldn’t help herself but angled her sword slightly. ”We were only talking.”

Had she wanted to, she could have had the boy gutted and writhing in the dirt before Rannon could take a step, and they both knew it. This man, who had stared down armies, assassins and the hatred of an entire people without flinching, looked almost sick at the sight of her just standing there, close to his son.

Huh, she thought to herself, placing a comradely hand on the boy’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. Somehow she had never imagined the fallen tyrant capable of human enough emotion to care about anyone but himself, and yet there it was, something raw and fractured in his eyes, something close to desperation. Always look for weaknesses to exploit, the boy had said, and part of her burned with the desire to finally be able to cause true irrevocable hurt.

”Karaon,” Rannon repeated, even tenser, his hand twitching involuntarily, no doubt yearning for his sword but knowing better than to reach for it. ”Come here.”

The boy looked up at her, then back to his father, clearly realizing something was wrong, but still not perceiving any danger. Still her hand on his shoulder kept him from walking away.

”We’re friends,” he repeated, as though trying to reassure his father, and somehow the sound of his clear young voice cut through the haze of hatred, gave her back her self-control.

”Of course we are,” she said. ”I’m sure your father is only looking out for your well-being, Karaon. After all, there is no thing worse in this world than losing your closest, dearest family.”

Rannon almost closed his eyes then, bloodless, drawing in a sharp breath.

”Let him go.” No doubt meant as a deadly warning, but there was too much anguish there, something nearly beseeching. She allowed herself the bitter satisfaction for a few moments more, then gently lifted her hand and gave the boy an encouraging pat on the back, sending him running towards his father.

Again he surprised her, taking the child into his arms and holding him hard, protectively half turning away, while never taking his eyes off her. She had no doubt she would die swiftly before ever being allowed near the boy again - a pity, she had rather liked him.

”You should ask your father what happened to his old friend, Karaon,” she said, coolly. ”Who gave him the blades he carries, and what he used them for.”

Of course it had been another dead end. Of course it had.

He should have known better than to dare hope, for a brief moment, to find answers after all this time, and it was with great frustration at himself he had to admit disappointment. A sharp and burning sting clawed at something deep within his chest, and it was unusually hard to find again the comforting cold indifference that had become his equilibrium long ago.

He had known he was unlikely to find answers here in the Floating City, at the filthiest lowest corners of decadent Machra-la - but unlikely as it had been, when the rumour had reached him of a name long unheard whispered in this wretched place, he had followed it desperately nonetheless.

No longer believing he would see that smiling face again – that was a hope long forsaken – but to maybe, finally learn the truth. Surely, after all this time, the young woman who had impossibly, inexplicably managed to get past all walls to touch his hardened heart must be long dead, swallowed whole without a trace by this dark and unforgiving place. The flare of pain burned brighter at that bitter thought and he pressed his lips together, forcing it away. No point in grief, or vain hope, or foolish emotion, he harshly told himself. Nothing had ever been accomplished by succumbing to such weakness.

But the pain lingered all the same.

The colorful butterflies of the Floating City melted aside after but a single glance at his unrelenting face, courtesans, traders and revelers, granting him passage. Colored lanterns came alive all around as the first drops of rain fell from a darkening sky, the tied-together garish rafts forming uneven, unsteady ground as the waves beneath heaved restlessly before the coming storm. If the rise and fall made him uneasy, he refused to acknowledge that as well, falling back on instinctive warrior's balance to keep himself steady.

Lost in dark thought, he finally stopped and frowned, realized he'd unconsciously followed a sound both alien and familiar, the quivering mournful notes of Ku'Ombian pan pipes cutting through the din of the crowd. Bringing back memories, none particularly pleasant.

The sound came from a small raft off the main thoroughfare, cheap lanterns lighting the rough boards of a simple shed, and the face of the fluteplayer. Actually from Ku'Ombos, he noted dryly, no doubt an exotic commodity of quite some value here.That would explain the pipes, he supposed, drawing attention to rare, red skin.

He almost resumed his walking, then, but something at the back of his mind had cut through the haze of melancholy, making him stop and take a closer look. The sharp features of the playing courtesan were familiar, too familiar to be waved aside as simply being accustomed to living among the people to the east. Aquiline nose and stark cheeckbones; the face may be older now, and drawn, but even beneath the thick make-up he would have known the face of his once friend-turned-traitor anywhere.

”You have a good eye, sati,” an ingratiating voice cut through his stunned contemplation. The flesh-peddler sitting beneath the swaying lanterns was a lanky middle-aged man with oily demeanour and hard eyes. He stood to gesture at the ruined prince cowering in cheap robes, bedecked with cheaper still jewelry. ”Do you like what you see? Evening like this, the storm brewing, people stay indoors and business is slow. No need to be cold and lonely when the rain comes. I'll give you a good price.”

Maqaxha's eyes were closed as he played, unaware he had been recognized. Still somewhat unable to tear his eyes from the familiar face, he narrowed his eyes. This was certainly not what he had come to the flotsam city to seek, but it would seem fate had other plans for his evening.

”How much?”

At his voice Maqaxha finally lowered the pipes, a look of vague alarm crossing his face, as though he couldn't place what was wrong but suddenly smelled danger. Still, he didn't open his eyes.

The Machralese stepped closer and reached out to place a comradely hand on his arm, met his eyes and clearly thought better of it.

”A distinguished man such as yourself? Surely you could spare twenty copper stars for an hour. I assure you, it will be worth it - have you ever been with a Ku'Ombian before, sati? They're a fiery breed, known for their deviant ways among the sheets.”

He scoffed.

”Not particularly, no,” he stated, thinking back on the modest and devout people. ”I'm not interested in an hour. What's the blood price?”

The man raised his eyebrows, and you could all but see the numbers flashing by behind cold, flat eyes as he recalculated his fortunes. Behind him Maqaxha had lowered the pipes into his lap, all color slowly draining from his face.

”Would you take my dear Kitsune away from me, sati..? He's like a child to me, my dearest friend and family in the world. I don't know if I could bear it...”

Feeling sullied from the crass bartering over no doubt well-used flesh, he none too subtly rested a hand on the hilt of his sword.

”Just name your price. Make it fair and I will pay you. Do not try my patience.”

”Master, please, no...” Maqaxha said, and it was so alien to hear that familiar voice coming from the blood red lips. Still the fallen prince kept his eyes closed, reaching out to place a beseeching hand on his master's arm, and it only now dawned on him that the man was blinded, eyelids sewn shut, the sutures hidden among painted lashes. Suddenly his skin crawled, and he wished nothing more than to leave this filthy place.

”Please,” Maqaxha repeated, barely veiled panic in his voice now. ”Master please, don't. Don't sell me for this, not to him, please!”

With a shrug the Machralese shook off the blindly fumbling hands without a second glance, all business now.

”Three thousand, sati. If you want his life, I'll need to buy another slave.”

Maqaxha made a sound, somewhere between a gasp and a sob, falling limply to his knees, still silently begging, tugging at his master's sleeve, a whore so pathetic he couldn't help but wonder for a moment if he had been mistaken. And yet, but for the garish make-up and hollowed face, he could still imagine all too well those pale green eyes shining with cruelty as the prince spoke his servants' death sentence. No mistake, he knew who it was he had found.

The price named was ridiculous, but if it meant he could finally leave, he would gladly pay it three times over.

”Accepted. You may keep his name and possessions. I'll take him with me.”

Nodding, the man turned to pluck brass bracelets and earrings from his weeping slave, ignoring the whispered pleas for mercy, swatting his clinging hands away in annoyance, clasping a simple leash to his collar. A brief transaction of money took place, and avoiding physical contact as much as possible he accepted the leash into his hand.

”He's all yours, sati. Enjoy,” the Machralese stated, having crassly counted his coins, apparently satisfied. ”It will be a cold night. I advice you to find somewhere warm before the storm hits. Now, if you will please excuse me...”

With a polite bow he turned to snuff out the lanterns, then disappeared through the curtains into the shed, leaving them alone in the oncoming rain. Maqaxha had collapsed into a weakly sobbing heap at his feet, and for a moment he coldly contemplated if he would have to drag the man by the leash all the way to his ship. He tugged none too gently on it to get his attention.

”Do you know who I am, Maqaxha..?” he asked, deathly quiet.

Gasping at that forbidden name, the shivering creature nodded, the make-up smeared now by tears.

”Yes,” he managed, a broken sound, likely not even realizing he still spoke heavily accented Machralese. ”I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. For everything. Please, sati... Have mercy, please...”

Unable to hold back a grimace of disgust he straightened.

”This is mercy. Get on your feet.” He gave the leash another tug. ”You have the judgment of a world to face.”

At first it seemed the man would not be able to stand, shaking violently, but fear of further punishment apparently won out and he painfully slowly hauled himself to unsteady feet, hiding his face in his hands.

Isokell sat cross-legged on the soft pillow and let her fingers caress the velvet-smooth surface of the paper in her hand. The feel of the coarser ink against the smooth surface was tangible to her sensitive fingertips and the meaning of the words was clear to her.

Who ever said you needed eyes to read..?

A mild summer breeze from the sea found its way into the little garden confined between the walls, and threatened to tear the thin rice papers from her hand, and she held them close until it had passed. The smell of sea and the sun-warm flowers of the garden followed in its wake; soon it would be too hot to stay outside during the midday hours, and she treasured the last exquisite days of spring.  

Nearby she heard the sound of children’s voices and laughter, softly accompanied by the whispering voice of panpipes. The music was simple, played note by note the way a child would play, but still strangely soothing and pleasant. She smiled to herself. The sounds represented security; all the things she treasured were close.

***

Small hands tugged at his sleeve as he lowered the pipes for a moment to push a few strands of hair out of his face.

"Again!"  

The little princess’ voice was determined; a trait she had no doubt inherited from her mother. A will of steel cloaked in velvet... He smiled softly and absently straightened the black cloth that covered his ruined eyes before raising the pipes again.

"As you wish, little saya. What would you like for me to play now..?"  

The young prince’s voice answered from behind his shoulder.

"Can’t you play the hymn of the Sun? It’s my favorite..."  

A movement of air and the soft rustle of silk revealed the princess’ nod of agreement. He raised his face towards the sky, felt the warm rays of sunlight against his skin. Indeed, the moment was proper enough. He raised the panpipes to his lips again, soundlessly mouthing the words of the ancient prayer before he started playing.

Father Sun...

Isokell smiled as the music came soaring on the wind again. Of all the melodies of his homeland that Maqaxha would play, the hymn of the Sun was the most ancient and heartrending. Although she had never been to Ku’naq, she almost felt as if she could feel the place with her senses, carried by the music. The presence of the two mighty twin-peaks with the steep stone stairs between them, the altar under the heavens, the sacred site of the sun... The concept was exotic and intriguingly heathen – it was only recently the ancient pagan worship of the Sun had been replaced by the lore of the five gods in Ku'Ombos; still many of the old ways lived on.

She sat quiet for a while, the papers in her hand forgotten as the murmur of the beautiful melody echoed softly between the walls, so much richer and harmonious than the tentative music before.

So absorbed was she by the quivering tune that she didn’t discover the danger until it was almost too late. A cool shadow fluttering across her face was her only warning, the absence of heard footsteps cause enough for alarm; whomever had approached was not welcome here. She fell back just before a sword plunged towards the pillows where she had been resting a moment before, tearing them in a cloud of fluttering feathers. Thrown off balance she struggled desperately to get to her feet and draw her small ceremonial curved blade. A despairing cry was torn from her lips as a second shadow freed itself from the first and disappeared towards the children.

The music suddenly fell silent.

***

As always, the hymn evoked mixed feelings within him, as it flew so easily from the wooden pipes he held. So many memories, so much lost forever, things seen a long time ago, before the darkness. He allowed himself to lose himself among them for a moment, remembering. Then suddenly he hesitated, the music unnaturally shrill in the silence.

Something was wrong, there was a tension in the air... When a desperate cry reached them from beyond the trees he leapt to his feet, the flute fallen and forgotten on the sun warmed marble bench.

"Saya..?"  

The whistle of swords slashing through the air and the sound of approaching footfalls filled the silence, and before he could take another step to hurry to his mistress’ aid, a massive form in front of him blocked the warm sunlight. A brutal blow picked him off his feet and slammed him hard into the stone wall behind him, and he sank to the ground, dazed. The grating ominous sound of a sword leaving its sheath made him struggle desperately to get up, despite the sudden dizziness and the dull ringing in his ears.

The clang of steel against steel told him Isokell was fighting for her own life; the children were alone and helpless before the new attacker. With his hand against the wall he managed to stand up, shook his head to clear it from the stabbing pain after the blow. A nasty sound of flesh smacking into flesh told him the boy had shared his own fate, no doubt knocked out while trying to defend his sister. As the whistling sound of a blade hissed through the air towards the children he was already instinctively moving. The little girl screamed, furious and terrified, and without thinking he threw himself forward.

***

Her adversary was strong and fast, but not too agile. Dread made her movements jerky and uncoordinated, but he had clearly not expected any opposition and kept underestimating her. After what felt like an eternity of desperate evasions and blows, she managed to dive under a too wide swing and drive her blade home beneath his chin. He was dead before he hit the ground.

With her heart in her mouth she hurried through the trees, tripping over her torn dress, the hands holding the sword slippery with cold sweat. As she heard her daughter's sobs her first feeling was euphoric relief; if she could cry at least she was still alive. The unfamiliar smell of bitter sweat, and the sound of grunted swearing brought her attention to the second attacker who huddled over something on the ground, struggling to retrieve his weapon. She didn’t even pause to think, just swung her blade with full force towards the source of the sound with all her strength. The hit wasn’t true, but held enough force to break his neck with an unpleasant crunching sound, and he collapsed at her feet.

"Karaon? Meimere?"  

She turned, searching her surroundings with her senses, the smell of blood thick and heavy in the air. A thin voice by her side made her whirl around.

"We are fine, mother, both Meimere and I... But... Maqaxha..."  

The painfully throbbing heat of the sunlight, the smell of blood and unfamiliar sweat, the sound of her daughter’s subdued crying clouded her senses, and it took her a few seconds to realize what had happened. With a gasp she hurried past her fallen opponent and knelt on the ground beside his victim.

His familiar spicy scent of cinnamon and cloves was almost lost in the metallic reek of blood; his hands stiffly clenched around the hilt of the blade that had pierced him.

"Maqaxha!"  

She didn’t even notice her voice cracking as she desperately tried to pry his grip open, wrench the cruel blade away. He let out an involuntary moan as the sword twisted inside him, but refused to let go; all but unconscious from pain and blood loss he still instinctively tried to keep an enemy from retrieving a weapon.

She laid her hands on his, tried not to think of how cool his usually so warm skin had become.

"Maqaxha! It’s me. It's me, Isokell... Please, let go! Maqaxha!"

At first she thought he didn’t hear her, but then she felt the hands beneath her own slowly relax. Whether because he had heard her plea or because his last powers were spent she didn’t know, but she carefully pried his cramped grip open to pull out the blade that had so nearly taken her children’s lives. Warm blood stuck to her hands and she quickly let go of the tainted blade, letting it fall onto the stones with a dull clatter.

She became aware of the presence of the children nearby, felt their shock and horror as a tangible surge through the air. Her face was tight as she turned to her son, and she forced herself to keep her voice steady.

"Karaon! Call for help; send for a healer, now!"  

From beyond the garden walls the everyday sounds of the palace could be heard; so close and yet so far away. No one knew yet of what had taken place. Her son’s presence left her and she heard his quick footsteps as he climbed a bench by the wall and called out to the people on the other side for help

With a quick gesture she pulled Meimere close, felt the small body tremble in her arms as she clumsily stroked her hair with her untainted hand. Despite the sunlight she felt cold, delayed shock making her hands shake.

As Karaon returned to her side she surrendered the sobbing girl to him, for the moment leaving him to give comfort and support. Her hands once again found Maqaxha’s, squeezed them hard, as if she could lend him strength through her desperate grasp alone.

"Saya..? Are you unharmed..?"

She wanted to weep as she heard how feeble and weak his voice was, how labored the quivering breathing that followed.

"I’m fine. We are all fine. Everything will be alright..."  

She bit her lip, allowed herself the small lie to ease his worries, but her voice betrayed her anguish. She thought she could feel his life fade away, slip through her fingers no matter how she fought to hold him back. His fingers closed over hers, already so cold and stiff, and she wanted to hate him for the pain her own helplessness caused her.

"Don’t dare to let go!"  

She was surprised at the fierceness of her own voice.

"Don’t you dare give up and leave me!"  

She could feel him tremble with pain, but the fingers holding her hand squeezed it reassuringly.

"Anything you wish, saya..."

Barely a whisper, that stupid, stupid platitude. How many times hadn’t he made her want to scream with the empty subservient words when they had first met..?

She had barely finished the thought as she realized that was his deliberate intention, that he tried to distract her from the macabre situation with a feeble spark of dry humor. With endless care she pulled him into her arms and held him then; knew it most likely would worsen his injures; knew also that by now it wouldn’t make any difference. At least he’d feel her presence...

Never again the sound of simple panpipe melodies would soar through the garden. The thought was unbearable, tearing her heart in two.

***

Familiar footsteps hurriedly approached and made her tilt her head up towards the light again, grief mixed with relief as the children threw themselves into their father’s arms. His voice was sharp with apprehension as he spoke.

"Isokell! What happened? Are any of you hurt?"  

Her own voice was severe with disbelieving anger as she replied.

"How can you ask..? The children and I are fine, but..."  

Blood, blood everywhere now. The man in her arms was so still, barely seemed strong enough to breathe. She could sense Rannon's scrutinizing gaze slide across her face and onward to Maqaxha’s broken form, felt the chill of it as he looked down upon his fallen once-enemy.

"He saved your children’s lives," she added, meaning to be hard, but sounded tired and miserable even to her own ears. He stood silent; she knew he was cradling his weeping daughter in his arms.

"A healer is on the way."  

His voice was softer than she had anticipated.

"When they told me what had happened, they had already sent for the foremost among Chima's own; they feared you were wounded. If he can hold on a while longer they should be in time."  

His voice was dispassionate, but she nodded gratefully, understood he was really more distressed than he seemed.

She held her First Servant close and murmured softly, empty nonsense-words as to a little child, only to convey her presence. He was shaking with pain at every agonizingly rasping breath now, clung onto life through sheer stubbornness and willpower alone, because she had asked him to.

"Just a little while longer," she whispered, buried her face in his hair.

"Hold on just a little while longer; the healer is on the way..."  

He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but she knew he had heard her.

"Stay with me..."  

The sunlight burned like fire over the garden, but the hand that held hers was cold as ice. Her powerlessness made her want to scream.

***

Far away footfalls could be heard across the smooth marble floors of the palace corridors, they approached with disciplined haste, lost their sharp echoes as they reached the gravel path of the garden. A sensation of shadows and sea-breezes fell across her senses as he knelt beside her and softly rested his hands on the broken body in her arms.

Everything was still, even Meimere's sobs had quieted; no one moved or spoke as the Chima priest sat immersed in healing prayer. Finally a rustle of cloth told her he looked up at her.

"I’m sorry."  

The words were simple, sympathetic but harbouring no sorrow.

"It was too late. There was nothing I could do. In the end, all lives are in Chima’s hands."  

She shook her head, unable to find any comprehensible meaning to his words. The hand that had held hers had let go of its firm grip, lay fragile and lifeless in her grasp.

"I’m sorry," the healer quietly repeated, mild compassion in his voice. She still struggled against the obvious, the insight too great, too painful to accept.

"No..."  

Her voice was but a hoarse whisper. Surely it couldn’t be right..?

Who had ever heard such folly; that help would come only to arrive a few precious moments too late? Surely it was impossible, a misunderstanding...

She didn’t even realize she was crying until burning tears dripped from her face and fell onto her hands. She vaguely heard Rannon speaking her name, but the sound held no meaning.

She held the lifeless figure close, rocked him slowly, still unable to accept what had taken place. It had all happened so fast; in only a few moments the tranquil scene had become a nightmare, and death itself had visited the sunlit little garden.

***

Strange.

How had she not hated him the first time she heard his name spoken along with the word ”traitor”; shunned his crimes and condemned his dark deeds? How had she not despised him when she had first met him years later; a groveling slave, so pitiful he inspired only disdain..?

But contempt had given way to aloof pity, and from compassion, sympathy and affection had slowly grown. A fragile friendship she had foolishly taken for granted.

Now as she held his body close, all she knew was that one of her truest friends had been torn from her forever.

***

Father Sun, welcome your son to you once more,

Mother Earth, may you devour his mortal bones

His blood flows as one with the Black River

And his soul as free as all the heavens...

Since it was requested, here’s that old Pangaea fic where I kill off poor Crow in a most tragic manner! :D

Power of Goodbye

Storyverse: Pangaea

Characters: Kitsune and Crow

Hee hee! I’m so glad I’m not the only one squeeing over the pretty fanart! And also very happy about all these reactions and questions! ♥♥♥

And yes! I do actually have that text! Some I have managed to misplace over the years, but some I have managed to salvage! It’s probably some 15-20 years old by now, ye gods, and I’ve gone over it and replaced and corrected some small things, but on the whole it’s unchanged. :D

Fic: “First Servant”

Original universe Pangaea

Characters: Akari and Rannon