It’s warm.
Nalvanka holds long, clawed fingers to the fire, a little too close. The skin
begins to ooze, pearling up with translucent fluid before it slips down across
her palm, tickles the skin of her wrist before hitting the tiled floor.
Is it? She can feel it. She knows she can feel it, because there’s pain running
along the fingers she’s burning, the smell of sizzling flesh as smoke curls,
and she can smell it in her nostrils, it’s faint but it’s there between the
blood. With a thump she sits back and holds her burned hand to her face,
studying it. The dull ache, the buzz that has always permeated her mind, is it going away? Flashes of a skull, black eyes, hollow eyes. Hidden. Someone
call her ma’am-
But they do that, here. She’s the matriarch. They bow. People like to bow, and
their eyes follow to Koschei afterwards, because he’ll break their fingers if
they don’t acknowledge him.
Does that happen? Did that happen?
Crone padded down the dirt hallway, her footsteps echoing down the corridor. She was going to see the Emperor, her best friend in the whole world. The five year old spent all of her time taking care of it, whether it was gathering food, singing and talking to it, or even climbing on its back to scratch its ears. Her father, Aseneth, was technically the Emperor’s Keeper, but she disagreed on his methods. He tortured the beast, beating and brutalizing it, inflicting deep wounds on its flesh and soul.
The small girl’s bag was packed full of the Emperor’s favorite snack, the fat mushrooms that lined the clan’s territory, as well as bandages for its wounds. She picked up the pace, stepping out into the Emperor’s pen, which was deep underneath the clan. The Emperor sat uncomfortably against the back wall, Crone ran up to it, tightly hugging one of its two snouts. Tiny tear drops pricked at her eyes, and she sniffled, then hugged the other head.
None of them had ever said so in so many words, but they were not the fondest of one another, neither as colleagues nor individuals. Phobos thought
Mímir
too fanciful and Lestat too flighty; Lestat thought Phobos too frigid and Mímir too forward; Mímir thought Lestat too sneaky and Phobos too stuffy.
Understandably, it made meetings like this one uncomfortable, and, away to the west, in Feldspar Proper, Dreamweaver was currently thanking their lucky stars that they had not been asked to attend. The Wardens felt this was a matter that should be discussed amongst themselves, and had assured them that their presence would not be required.
(Privately, however, they all agreed that Dreamweaver’s presence would have been a comfort, because none of them wanted to be alone with the others–but their founder was very busy, and there was no reason to drag them from their duties for a matter as trivial as comfort.)
Thus, they sat, each of them absorbed in their own busywork. Phobos shuffled through his notes again. He had done so several times already. Lestat tended to his nails. They were manicured to perfection, but he was an expert at finding minute details to fuss over. Mímir, meanwhile, had only a goblet of wine to distract him, nursed slowly and with reverence. It was some of Bordeaux’s finest, sent up fresh from the western vineyard.
But Mímir was not as patient as his peers, so, finally and with great reluctance, he set his cup aside and tapped a finger on the table. “Let’s dispense with the formalities,” he drawled. “We all know one another, and I’m certain we all know why we’re here.”
The force of the impact cracks the plastered wall, radiating
out in a black spiderweb. Bastion pushes a hand through his short hair and
across his face, exhaling hard until he feels his chest ache; he strides
forward and pulls the naginata free.
He’s just so angry. So angry that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He
should be with everyone else, he should be fighting, but he’s ‘not ready yet’,
he ‘needs time to recover.’
With both men now dumped onto bedrolls Dana dragged inside
the tent, she folds her arms over chest and looks at Rho with steadily
increasing wariness.
(Would you like me to leave?)
The question makes her eyes narrow further.
“What do you want?” she asks coolly.
Rho watches her with equally mounting confusion. Theoretically, he thinks he
understands where this spike in hostility is coming from, but he’s been helping
for over an hour now, or close to it.
“This is absolute rubbish, it wasn’t supposed to go like this.” Bathsheba thrashed around, pacing the area of the small swamp hut she shared with Mora, who sat criss-cross on a floor mat across from her.
“Well there’s nothing we can do about it now, Baba, just calm down.” It had been three days since the king had dismissed them and allowed them to move freely through the territory. Since then, some kind members of the clan had set them up with the hutch they were in now, along with some meager furnishings, belongings, and some food.
“Besides what did you expect to do?? Waltz in and kill the king?!” Bathsheba’s annoyed silence answered her question, “Next time we’re planning Grand-Patricide AND regicide, could you please clue me in??”
Being away from home so soon scores marks into his heart, a
strange ache beneath the skin that he almost attributes to loneliness or
anxiety before he can shake it away. After all, it was he who suggested this
march. With the ranks beginning to grow once again, a contact of his father’s
given to him proper and words exchanged, the need to meet in person with a show
of force- he’s trying to reacclimatise, but it’s difficult.
One week has passed. One week, and it feels like another
week of imprisonment.
Bastion swings his legs across the bed and plants his feet firmly on the floor.
Elasticated bandages wrap tight around the scar tissue of his ankles,
increasing the blood flow. He stares down and is consciously aware of how his
vision now leans to the right; sure, he can see both feet, but his field of
view has shifted enough that he is now aware of it, and aware enough that it
makes him feel sick.
Placing both hands just behind his hips, he eases more weight on his feet. He technically
needs a medic to watch him do this, but-
There won’t always be someone watching out for him.
He pushes forward and pain sparks down the newly restored tendons and
ligaments, the feel of knives being plunged through his skin. He grits his
teeth before relaxing his jaw instead; such a movement creases his brow and has
the potential to start a catastrophic migraine, as he has found out first-hand over
the past few days.
On the third day Rho’s strength begins to return proper,
enough that he no longer leans upon the hard edge of his scythe or begrudgingly
against hard surfaces; he flexes taloned feet and clicks bony joints as he
argues his way out of continued bedrest. He doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t really
need rest except that which his mind deems necessary. Eden’s insistence is born
of love, he knows that, but equally he cannot stay put. His desire to stay
where he can watch Bastion wars with what he knows- that he must see everyone
he can, do everything he can as he is gripped with vengeful, spiteful fervour.
He
does not dream. No towering pillars nor chains adorn his subconscious
mind, there is no reek of iron and no din. There is only an endless expanse of
white, stretching for infinity.
It hurts.
Rho’s pale blue eyes flutter open with great effort. His vision is full of
black holes, and tinted grey. He feels strangely disassociated from his body,
except that he acutely aware that every inch now contains a dull ache. It is
more than unpleasant, and it rouses his mind further.
“It’s alright,” says a familiar voice, “It’s going to be alright. You’re safe,
okay baby?”
Eden?
He opens his mouth to speak and finds it dry and empty; his mind lethargically
reminds him his vocal cords do not work and he should shut it again.
He does.
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