#soartfullydone

It’d been three days since she’d escaped the cells beneath the Lions’ compound, and yet still the Lions had not relented in their tireless search.  She’d been warned not to seek passage out of the city until the patrols had their fill of blood.  She needed them to think she had already managed to flee beyond the borders of Durlyne, leaving the roads out of the city relatively unguarded as they expanded their search.  Simple enough in theory, but not quite so in practice.

Especially considering who was likely spearheading the search.

A sharp pang shot through her chest, some terrible amalgamation of fury and despair that left her breathless.  No, Addilyn thought, forcing that too keen agony back into the depths where it belonged, even as the burn of fresh tears made itself known.  She couldn’t afford to wallow in her misery, not now.  Not with the Lions still gnashing at her heels.

A cold, humorless laugh left her, drawing more than a few odd looks her way as she roughly wiped at her eyes.  How many had she hunted in all her years amongst their ranks?  It was no small number, of that she was sure.  Oh, how fitting an end to the Lioness’ tale, to be set upon by her fellows as if she were little more than a rat caught sniffing about the dinner table.

It wasn’t long before an old, crumbling building came into view.  The windows were cracked and shattered, and its door only just barely clung to a single hinge, ensuring that it did little in the way of providing shelter to any who might choose to reside within.  But she didn’t need shelter, only a place to hide.

It was one of the many abandoned homes along this strip—too close to Blue Boy Bridge, it seemed.  Not many wished to risk living so near the ilk that inhabited what laid beyond it, especially as of late.  But this building in particular had proven to be a much needed refuge these last few days.  The Lions of Mercy had not seen fit to venture this far from the city’s center, though she could not for the life of her discern why.  It unnerved her, to say the least, but she wasn’t one to question God’s good favor, not when she needed it most.

But still Addilyn glanced up and down the street, seeking the telltale sight of Ssaelit green and the dull sheen of standard issue plate armor.  She was not so foolish as to think that God’s favor extended beyond her own wits.  She had no doubt that Ssael’s patience would fade soon enough.

Once she was certain she hadn’t been followed, she slipped through the doorway and into the gloomy interior.  The building had long since been looted of whatever valuables might have been left by its prior occupants, leaving only that which was too large or too troublesome to carry.  A large table sat in the center of the room, simple but sturdy in its make.  The wooden surface had begun to warp and splinter, yet was otherwise intact.  It was all but useless to her, but at least it served to make the space feel less cavernous.

Addilyn moved to place her satchel upon the table, her spoils for the morning ensconced within.  She’d managed to snatch a fresh meat pie from a harried vendor as he contended with a rush of patrons.  It was probably the last decent thing she’d eat for a long while.

Ignoring the chill that seeped in through the rotten boards lining the window panes, Addilyn reached up to pull back her hood, allowing herself a moment to breathe.  A few days.  Just a few more days and they would decide that she wasn’t worth the effort.  No matter who was leading the pursuit.

She let out a final, slow breath, her spine straightening as she forced her shoulders back, resolute in her bearing.  It was as she reached inside her bag that something shot out from the shadows, the projectile missing her face by a mere hair as it embedded itself in the wall behind her.  Addilyn immediately hit the floor, a long string of curses flowing from her lips.  Never before had she so keenly felt the absence of her blade.

“You missed, maafit,” Addilyn taunted, weariness all but forgotten.  She scanned the room for her assailant, her eyes snagging on a darkened corner far from the pale, gray light spilling in through the windows.  There was a large figure crouched there, still and silent despite her scrutiny.  Another curse left her.  She was growing careless, stupid in her desperation.

The figure remained motionless, watching her, as if awaiting her next move.  Addilyn’s gaze flickered between that darkened corner and the door.  If she was quick about it, she just might be able to make it out—especially if she could manage to upend the table for cover.  It wouldn’t be much, but it’d serve her better on its side than as it was now.

A beat passed in silence, a cold sweat soaking into the collar of her coat, before she sprang to her feet, pushing the table over as she moved.  It hit the floor with a loud crash, piercing the quiet like a sudden thunderclap.  She’d made it the four strides to the door when another projectile whistled through the air, its sharpened tip slicing a thin line across her cheek before burying itself in the old and splintering wood.

Addilyn froze midstep, her eyes wide in horror—though it had nothing to do with the thin trail of blood that now oozed down the side of her face.

The projectile—it was no crossbow bolt, nor was it any common dagger.  It was a small, sleek throwing knife, forged to be a quick and precise means of taking down a distant foe.  The freshly sharpened steel shined even in the dim, accentuating its razor edge.

And she knew it just as well as she did her own blade.

“Don’t, Theron,” an all too familiar voice rumbled.  Addilyn immediately felt as if she might be sick.  “You run out that door, I send up a flare that brings every Lion in the district down upon you.”

Addilyn remained rooted where she stood, her breathing ragged as panic began to claw at her throat.  No.  No, no, no.

“Theron,” Lemuel warned, the hardened edge of an officer’s command in his voice.  She heard him take a step, the soft scrape of metal on metal filling the tense quiet as he moved.  He’d come in his armor, then.  “Don’t make me–”

“What are you doing here?” Addilyn hissed, forcing the words from her lips.

Lemuel was quiet for a moment, as if he hadn’t expected her to speak.  “I’m here to take you back,” he said simply.

He took another step, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight.  The sound snapped her from her stupor, years of training finally breaking the paralysis of shock and fatigue.  She grabbed for the knife embedded in the door as she whirled on him, brandishing it as she would have any sword.  Lemuel stood ten paces from her, his black, clawed gauntlets gleaming from beneath the dark cloak draped over his shoulders.  He held his hands out in front of him, a gesture of peace.  It was a laughable display.  She could only hope that he didn’t see how her own hand trembled.

“‘Take me back,’” she sneered, moving away from the door as he took another step toward her.  If nothing else, she wanted that table between them.  “To await my turn at the altar, it would seem.”

“I come here as a kindness.”  He spoke softly, as if coaxing a wounded animal into his snare.  “If they were to find you–”

“I know what a Lion's mercy entails.”  Fear and anger thrummed through her in equal measure, her heart beating out a rapid rhythm within her chest.  “I've meted it out often enough, sir.”

He paused mid-stride, his brow drawn in slowly mounting frustration.  “Then you know why I came here alone, rather than with a squad at my back.”

“You must redeem yourself somehow, I suppose.  I'm sure all eyes turned to you when I vanished from my cell.”

“Don't do this, Addilyn–”

“They should only know that you never once set foot in those dungeons.  Not after you left me there to await the butcher's call.”

“I didn't have a choice–”

“Said by many a coward when faced with his sins,” she spat, unable to quash the vitriol that surged forth.

Lemuel lunged at her then, his golden gaze alight with a simmering rage as he leapt over the upended table.  Addilyn made to duck out of his reach, stepping back as his beclawed hand lashed out—only to stop short as her back hit the wall.

Lemuel was upon her in an instant, pinning her in place with a hand at her throat.  The metal of his gauntlets was bitingly cold, the pointed tips digging painfully into the soft flesh as he pressed her to the wall.  Reason left her as she glared up at him, her arm raised to slash at his face with his throwing knife—but Lemuel was fast, grabbing for her wrist with his free hand as he met her eye.  As if daring her to break his hold.

“I did what was necessary!” Lemuel snarled, a righteous fury undercutting his words.  “I did my duty.”

“You betrayed me–”  She choked on the words, her throat tight with tears she would not dare shed in his presence.  The anger was so much easier than the anguish, than the heartache.  “You threw me to the wolves and never once looked back.”

“I gave you a way out.  I gave you a choice.”

“You gave me no such thing,” Addilyn shot back, relentless in her wrath.  She felt his grip on her throat tighten, outrage clearly written upon his pale features—though still she did not falter.  “You knew I would never take the Third Option.  You knew.  But with my refusal, I absolved you of whatever guilt might have plagued you as you handed me over to the Lions.  My life their last, desperate gambit to pacify the Geffies in their pursuit of Ssaelit blood.”

“We cannot afford the likes of you furthering the Gefendur agenda, Addilyn.”  Desperation began to line his features, that hardened mask he so loved to don cracking beneath the strain.  “You are a liability, and will continue to be as such so long as you draw breath.”

“Then do it,” she dared, her teeth bared.  Her neck ached, a faint wheeze sounding with each breath she took.  “You claim to have come here as a kindness.  A mercy.  Dole out that infamous Lion's mercy, then, sir.”

She brought her free hand up to wrap around his armored wrist, adding to the pressure against her throat.  His eyes widened, visibly flinching at her touch.  A brief flash of panic flickered across his face, realization dawning as her words registered.

And yet still he held fast, a cold resolve falling over his features as his eyes hardened.

The hand at her neck tightened its grip, forcing a pathetic whimper to tumble from her lips as he suddenly threw her to the floor.  A heaving gasp was the only sound to leave her, only just realizing how her lungs had burned with the need for air.  Her head swam, the floor beneath her seeming to tilt and sway as she attempted to regain her bearings.

But before she could even push herself up onto her knees, the unmistakable rasp of a drawn blade filled the eerie quiet.

Addilyn went rigid, her every muscle pulled taut as she slowly shifted her attention back up toward Lemuel.  He loomed over her, sword in hand and poised to strike.  It hovered mere inches from her neck, as if he had abruptly stopped mid-swing.  She stared up at him, her breathing coming in short, quiet gasps.

If he expected her to beg, to plead for her life, he would be sorely disappointed.

Lemuel stood motionless, silent, his breathing deep and even as he leveled the tip of the blade with her chin.  The steel was cold enough to burn against the warmth of her skin, even at just the slightest touch of its sharpened edge.  Darkly, she couldn’t help but wonder which sword he had drawn.  Was it Ataret that would send her to her next life?  Or was it Kossaul?

That familiar, black dread pooled within her belly, twisting at her gut until she thought she might vomit.  But even as her arms shook and her mouth ran dry, she didn’t look away, her gaze locked with his.  If he was so sure that the world must be rid of Addilyn Theron, then he could damn well look her in the eye as he bled her dry.

When he finally moved, it was sudden and without warning, a furious roar piercing the air as he reared back to strike her down—

—only to then throw down his sword, the blade hitting the floor with a cacophonous clatter.

Addilyn flinched, scrambling back from him as he turned away from her, his head in his hands.

“Go,” Lemuel rasped, his voice small.  Mournful.  Anguished.  “Go, before they find you here.”

Addilyn simply gaped up at him, disbelieving.  Still her hands shook, bile churning within her gut as terror's grip slowly began to fade.  “Lem–”

“Go!” he shouted, his voice like thunder. 

Addilyn didn’t dare to challenge him a second time, pushing herself to her feet as she grabbed for her satchel.  She rushed for the door, colliding with the overturned table in her haste to flee—and as she crossed the threshold, a tentative freedom within her grasp, Lemuel’s parting words called to her, following her out of the building and onto the gray, rain slicked street.

"Is that any way to greet a friendly face, Captain Adelier?" Bastion intoned, daring a glance over his shoulder.  Adelier's face was stone, his eyes hard and his mouth a firm, thin line.  A roguish grin lit up the Black Tongue's pale visage.  "And here I thought we had developed a rather cordial working relationship."

"I didn't call on you, Ilgan Yag," Adelier spat, as if the word were poison upon his tongue.  Oh, if only.  "You'd best have good reason for defiling the Temple grounds with your stench."

"Does Ssael not open his doors to everyone?" Bastion needled further.  He was rewarded with the tip of the sword pressing harder into his back.  His grin only widened.

"Not everyone," Adelier ground out.

"A pity.  A convert might very well have been lost this day."

"Enough.  Do not toy with me.  I'm in no mood."

That much was clear.  Though Bastion couldn't say he'd ever caught the Soud in a particularly receptive mood. 

"Fine, then," Bastion said, lowering his arms to play at adjusting the hem of his gloves.  A show of nonchalance, though his lips remained upturned in thinly veiled amusement.  "Perhaps you can help me."

"I'd rather help a sow find her bliss," Adelier said flatly.

"Come now," Bastion said, turning on his heel to face the Soud.  The blade remained level with his chest, those piss colored eyes boring into him with a fearsome ire, but he was otherwise unmolested.  "I'm just following a bit of gossip.  I simply wished to confirm it at the source."

Adelier's brow rose a fraction, inquisitive.  Bastion had to smother the smirk that begged to take shape.

"What sort of gossip?"

"The most interesting kind," Bastion continued.  "There's been talk of a caster amongst your lot.  Talented, it seems.  Can cast with nary a word spoken."

Adelier flinched, his blade faltering slightly.  A surge of satisfaction flooded Bastion's veins, and that smirk appeared unbidden.

"Tacit casters are incredibly rare," he explained, the words laced with a not so subtle taunt.  "Not to mention innate tacits.  So of course I had to follow the trail and see for myself.  Color me surprised when the source turned out to be the Lion's very own Delight."  The moniker came out with more bite than he had intended, but the scars at his back itched, and only now did some relief for that old wound appear to be at hand.

Adelier's face seemed to blanch, though it was difficult to tell in the dim light of a looming dusk.  "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, the words gruff and forced.

"Your niece has been very busy, it seems," Bastion continued undaunted, his gaze flickering down to examine his nails.  "Though I suppose she'd be your daughter now, yes?  Congratulations on the nuptials, by the way.  I would have sent a fruit basket had I been informed."

In a flash, Bastion found himself with that same blade pressed to his throat, the steel bitingly cold against his warm flesh as Adelier closed the short distance between them.  Adelier was fairly agile for a man of his build.  He had begun to harden himself in the few years since that dark, snowy night, the almost lithe form he had once sported now showing more bulk.

He should only know that his brutish ways would not save him—or her—should Bastion will it.

"I swear to God," Adelier rumbled, his breath fogging the air between them.  "If you so much as come within ten yards of her, of any of them, I will flay you alive and leave you for your hallowed crows."

They stood almost nose to nose, close enough that Bastion could see the ragged edges of the ugly scar carved into the Soud's face.  It twisted with the scowl that pulled at his countenance, turning his handsome features into something unsightly.  That same petty satisfaction thrummed hotly beneath his flesh.

Bastion allowed himself a soft chuckle, the minute movement causing the sharpened edge of the sword to dig into the skin of his throat.  A bead of blood welled under the blade, slowly trailing down the Black Tongue's neck and pooling within the hollow of his clavicle.  Fury danced in Adelier's eyes, his piercing gaze seeming to pulse a fiery gold.

But before he could make good on his threat, or at the very least slit Bastion's throat from ear to ear, Bastion held his hands up once more as if in surrender—though his smirk did not once falter.

"Promises, promises, darling," he said, his tone light and taunting, and grabbed for the hilt of the sword.  His free hand reached for that ever immovable silver torc at his neck and murmured something near inaudible, though loud enough for the khert to heed his call.