Post by Rowenna on Jun 22, 2008 1:11:14 GMT -5
This lone elf who walked the forest was unashamed of the sword that hung off his belt, from the obvious to the back of his mind. The reason for his coming back was as simple as a single word that seemed to sound in a silent mutter over and over again in his mind, the whisper of his sword reminding him of the duty that brought about his return: Revenge.
Abbot, oldest of teachers, oldest of friends; he had been the one to shove him off, to tell him away from his own. He said that Lerris would be better off alone, that this time away from his own would help him grow and find his own way on this earth.
*A darkness is coming, and you need to know you before you can know how to fight.
I've no qualms with anyone to choose to fight.
A walking stick in the old elf's hand and a few supplies, a calm smile upon his face, and Lerris watched him, dumbfounded: "Master, I don't need to find myself; I am right here… how hard is that?" Abbot didn't say anything; just a smile. At the time, it was just so preposterous that Lerris knew not what to say, and left without saying anything.
That was a distant memory, because Lerris was seventy… seventy something. Things like time and age lack importance when you're focused on Revenge.
A salmon returning to spawn; a wind-torn migrating gander. Lerris in Mirkwood; a washed-out puzzle piece returned to the picture that's as bright as new. Brown bristles collected against his face and chin, like the hair on his head, long and wild with neglect. Because when your mind is set on Revenge, you choose to forget emotions, save the base ones like hate. It is now, the elf is incapable of love of anything, and it is now that Abbot sees him, locks eyes with him, but there is no calm smile waiting: only a blank stare.
He breaks the silence first: "Lerris, my boy, look at y…" The young one holds up a hand and cuts him off, "Don't say anything to me, Abbot, because I do not think I have the time for the thing I would say back at you." Abbot shakes his head with a deep sigh that accompanies the movement, "I guess you aren't my pupil anymore. I suppose, at some point, I had to stop trying to teach you."
Lerris' eyes burn; he isn't sure why he is near tears. This man hurt him more than anyone had ever hurt; he wipes the tears away, wondering if they are tears of anger or frustration. No other words are spoken, but such a ring of steel fills the air like a horn of commencement, announcing the arrival of a sword. It is strange enough, Abbot makes no move to flee. No move to guard himself from what he seems to know is coming.
The only move Abbot makes is to smile. It startles Lerris, at first, to see someone like Abbot smile at him while he holds his sword in anger next to his head. "So are you going to kill me then, Lerris?" Abbot raises his hand to tap his left breast, "My heart lies here, my old friend; please, strike true."
Had Lerris still been within his mind, he would have dropped the sword and fell to his knees, letting tears overcome his face in choking sobs that shuttered against his chest-bone. Master would have touched his head in sympathy, they would have stayed alone, in the woods, and time would have taken them differently. He couldn't of looked into this old elf's eyes, let alone slain him, but his hate burns his heart, and this elf no longer cares for anyone but himself. So he lifts his blade, and even though he could have chosen the right way, he could have chosen the path of repentance, he makes his decision.
Not friendship, but spite.
Not love, but pride.
Not joy, but jealousy.
Not love, but moral outrage.
The pupil blinks, the master does not.
The body slid from one end of the blade, leaving in its wake, a streak of innocent blood and, with a thud, to the ground it fell. Silence enshrouded the woods, and Lerris' body heaved as he stood over the corpse of the fallen Abbot. In his mind, he felt like he accomplished all that he had ever wanted in life. Because the Darkness always wants you to know, no matter what you do, that sooner or later, there will be brighter days, and perhaps Lerris knew a little better, but he nurtured the Darkness inside himself so that everything else was in its shadow; and he thought he was alone, he and his Darkness, the one and only breathing thing inside these woods.
Enshrouded, he did not see the Fire.
"Rowen!"
She jumped the wood like a nimble hare, the leaves smacking against her burlap, leather, and naked skin, speed of a jumping deer, poise of a desert cat, heart alive with fire. The pine around her could burst with fire if they could, intense eyes, jocular disposition, she moved her sleek body amongst the wood with a purpose. Fast moving cedars flashed by, distorting the image of her—she had been there before. d*mn it all, she had been there before.
Rowen's silver eyes moved across the cluttered trunks, letting it all sink in, letting the recognition sink in her eyes. Momentarily stopped in a wide of the wood, she looked about the world that was coming back to her, bit by bit, moment by moment, time by time. She hadn't meant to, but she was here again. She remembered. She remembered as sure as the scar on her shoulder, she was in the wood, the home of the elf that wounded her, the elf she still owed in blood and pain and victory.
"Rowen!"
Not much was different about Rowen since last she came; she was only a few years older, no less c*cky, perhaps even stronger, and she was as ever the same thief who killed and plundered and took pleasure in the sword. Just as fiery, just as lively, just as spirited, every bit as-
"Rowen, where are you?"
Well, perhaps not everything was the same. A boy darted after, running after the wildcat like a lizard on water, all the direction the female lacked, none of the speed of the careless wandering of the woman he followed.
He emerged from the thicket. He was small and lean, not yet entered into adulthood, but old enough to survive on his own, for a little while. Though a child, there was something not altogether childlike about him—for all his cries and devoted searching. It began with his eyes. His eyes were old; his face was somber. Wide, circle eyes, like a child, but knowing, deep like ink, clouded like fog, pale-almost-gray clean face so young like a baby, so distant like the reflection on a surface of water. What ever it was, this thing, it shouldn't have belonged to a boy, but out of the branches and there he was, flesh and bone and blood and alive. As soon as he his head stuck out of the branches and boles of tree, his movement was stopped by the stopped body of Rowen, and he had to brake his heel against the forest floor or crash in to her back.
It was a deliberate move, on Rowen's part, ever aware of the thing that attached to her like an extra limb.
"Stay here, Byron," she said to her student, one that had been placed on her shoulders rather involuntarily. She turned to look at him with the front of a smirk playing on her lips, and her eyes narrowed with blaze. A very light smack on one of his cheeks, "set up camp right here. I have to go see about an old friend of mine."
She didn't wait for him to say anything before she took off at a run into the thicket, silent but for the gentle pat of rock and wood beneath her feet, a strike of a leaf against her limb every now and then. Once, and elf insisted against her sneaking up on people. She didn't listen; she never did. And if she was right, the same elf might know it tonight; and so she followed the sonancy in the air, the sound she thought was the voice of an elf who gave her a scar she would not forget, and who she had yet to fight again to show she was better. And she was better. She had to be stronger, she had to be smarter, and she would make him know it before the day was out.
It was time.
She hadn't planned on coming here… indeed, at first, there was regret, confusion, even anger; but as she heard the voices floating in the air, she could not be stopped, even by herself.
She skulked along the wood, slowing, hunched in shadow, coming closer to the beaten path. It was twilight. The sun was gone, but the light remained, and the sky was a smoky silk of gray and blue, the shadows on the earth making everything dimmer but still beautiful in its own light. The twilight was on the path, and Rowen was one who spoke against traveling by the road, such modes only taken by nightfall, and only to stalk and to prey in thievery. It was twilight, and her gut wanted only night. It was twilight, and everything glowed. She emerged from the cedar trees and came onto the pathway, growing cautious, eyes looking about the seemingly empty road for all signs of life. The birds, the plants, deer…
Elves.
"Sir Saphire."
She waited, still in silence; her eyes narrowed, her heart beat in her breast, the only sound for a moment or more.
When he heard his name, once-Lerris erected to his full height, ripping his eyes from the fallen corpse. There was no corpse, there was no woods, no sky, no darkness, no light. Abbot's death unlocked something inside himself, and that is what he saw: the beating of his own heart, this muscle inside his flesh, faster, faster, livid, red, blackened by heat and burning, translucent flesh from a fire within.
This, he saw as he looked for the voice that called him.
He clutched the blade he hadn't known till then still rested in his palm, and he raised it level with the place he heard his surname—his name, or his once name, they could call him that if they liked, this Lerris, this Saphire, and he could hate it still; it didn't matter, he did know that he wanted ever spoken again.
"Do you intend to speak my name and stay hidden? I have no time for shadowed beings in the night. Make yourself shown, so we may finish this quick; I have better things to do with my time."
The fire ate his name. The hate of his heart burned and corrupted every part of him, even the darkest parts; the darkness, his name, whatever was left of compassion and trust, and his voice dripped with contempt. It was clear while he spoke, he bade no suggestion: it was a demand.
Within the shadows, the bobcat smiled. She smiled at the voice, as she felt the sword on her belt, as she remembered the moments past, but not forgotten. She wasn't scared of the way he sounded, though she should have been; she wasn't scared of anything, ever, any place, any time, she should have felt the heat of his fire and known, should have been burned by the suffocating fumes of combustion coming off his body, but she knew none of it. She carried, with her, her arrogance as she slinked to the sound of his voice, that superior smile, those slits for eyes, that tilt of her head and the sway of her arms at her sides.
"Saphire…" Blackhawk hummed.
He crushed the darkness.
He crushed it under his heel, and the darkness scattered under the heat of the furnace within him. "You," he growled, the voice played in his head, a voice without a body, he couldn't see the body, the flames were too violent. The darkness within him receded to the far reaches of space; the furnace flared, and it crooned him, it wanted to help him forget his name. He didn't want to hear that voice, let alone see that body at that time, or any time, truly; but he listened hard anyway, to hear her step lightly on the forest path unseen, but the roar of the furnace was too loud to be dealt with. The fire inside became more than the darkness without; unlike the darkness, the fire didn't lie, didn't skulk in shade and shadow, it told him the truth, and even if it was a horrid truth, he embraced it, he welcomed it, he agreed with it, and more.
The fire is worse, because you let it in without even a fight.
"Do you remember me? I remember you," the woman's said. Her voice was everywhere, intoxicating, impregnating the forest with filth like liquor, and the forest swooned as it guzzled her poison. "I remember you and me, right around her somewhere; I remember steel, I remember blood. I remember telling you I don't like to be ordered around."
"Rowen," his mouth clenched in a wicked smile. She should have left as soon as he spoke her name. She should not have loosed her venom on he, this elf who no longer felt anything but hate. To her memory, he was just an elf who did not like to fight. To her memory, he had a name. For now, this Lerris Saphire was not about to back down, even if it was Rowen. Blood still dripped from his sword, and it begged for more.
"Now," said his predator-prey. "Come out where I can see you."
Lerris lowered the tip of his sword and stepped into the moonlight that shone through the trees and on the barren pathway; and there she was, just as he remembered her, and his smile faded—bathed in twilight and stars, her image of broken-mended thievery, muscle and heat.
She looked, and her eyes remembered and traced over memories, there for an instant, gone the next. One moment, she saw the clash of swords, one moment, a quiet twilight forest. An instant, blood and anger and dancing silhouettes by moonlight. Another, a lone elf, staring her down and bathed in the moon.
"Only death speaks in this forest tonight," Lerris held, fast, his sword. "If you choose to leave right now, it may not speak to you…"
He took several steps toward her, and lifted his sword, not even bothering for an answer; the dark elf feigned right and kicked her in the left part of her stomach. The elf didn't give warnings—the woman jarred; the elf didn't care about anything.
Rowen flew backward at the kick, surprised but fast regrouped as the flight turned to a skip back, and she landed and made for her sword. "Saphire," she tried to talk tall, hunched over the grip on her weapon, poised with her knees bent for dancing. "That's not very polite." Her boot slid back against the dry dirt as she solidified her footing, and she watched him, carefully, cautiously, though her eyes looked not all cautious. A mark of cleverness, unshakeness. But she was worried.
A nuance, nothing more.
He was different—she could see that; but in the balance between pride and intellect, pride won off every time. He made one dirty move, but that one didn't change the whole from being the elf who wouldn't even kill her the last time they met. It scorned her. It almost boiled her blood how he didn't finish it, like she wasn't worth finishing, how she was made to go on with a loss forever marked on her skin. She had lost. She didn't care if he said it was a draw, but she had failed that day. Things like that didn't go away; not until she had an old debt repaid.
"I can't know why in the world you would attack me just now, Sir Saphire—considering how amiable we were as we parted ways. Good friends, I'd say—wouldn't you?"
She drew her metal. The scabbard released the magnificent thing, her sword, her Xakaryas, and the metal of the phoenix bird ate the moon in all its fluid splendor, lighting the embossments of a long, elegant neck, down and embers. The sky did grow darker, and the twilight was gone, and Xakaryas swallowed the moon in the blue night. She held out her sword at the front as if to attack, but then she swung it beneath her belly as she made a low and respectful bow.
"I have an old score to settle with you. I want to even those odds today," and then, "what say you, Saphire!"
He charged.
Swords connected, she caught her breath in shock, he growled, he pushed forward his own sword, and Rowen pushed forward with hers.
He gave no warning… her mind went on.
He broke the lock and ducked, bringing the hilt of his sword straight up, trying to catch her in the chin, but was easily blocked and thrown back.
Why doesn't he say anything?
He left no time to catch breath as he went toward her right leg, her sword swung to block it, but connected with nothing.
Something…
His sword was already on its way back up toward her left shoulder.
Is…
The sword didn't connect, because Rowen was faster than that.
Wrong.
She brought up the blade just enough to block it as the edge of Lerris' met her shoulder. It bled, but did not go through—the sword cried out in anger that its master had not fulfilled his promise of her death, instead tempting it with her blood.
Saphire!
He almost apologized to it, almost, not quite; this elf did not care for apologies, he only cared for the kill; and on this night, he intended to get it. Besides, Lerris Saphire wasn't going to die. Not at the hands of Rowen-bloody-Blackhawk, at least.
Rowen let open her jaw as though to expel a cry as the steel pierced her skin, though from her mouth came silence. She pushed him back with the sharp of her sword against his own, and the pain of her shoulder sent shockwaves down her arm. It was the wound, that wound, right there, where he had struck. Where there was a prominent scar, now a bloodstain and a cleanly ripped length of tunic. She didn't think he would do it. She really didn't think…
Her force broke, and she slid herself underneath his arm, fast like lightning, steel sliding against steel as blue electricity bounced off the blades, and she eased herself behind him—shoved him back, clumsily, putting distance between.
He wouldn't… she thought to herself. That was it; that was the moment—that was the final indication, the final action that proved that something was wrong, something was wrong with him, and she didn't know what.
"What the hell's the matter with you?" she cried out, anger, confoundedness, don't show the pain, sweat built up on her forehead.
She let her sword droop down, the point resting against the dirt as she let her arm go limp at her side—but only for a moment. She regrouped herself to her former position, biting down the hurt in her shoulder as she lifted the weapon in a fighting stance. It hurt like all d*mnation, but she could take it. She wasn't going to look weak in front of him, not ever. She was better than that. Better than the pain, better than the scars, better than him.
"Why don't you say anything…"
He didn't say anything because this elf didn't take time to talk; because this elf didn't care, he rather fight, he rather kill.
"Answer me, d*mn you!"
Lerris Saphire would have answered her, could have answered her, but no. His elfhood was dead, but he wouldn't die, he wasn't about to die after changing his life in the killing of the former Master Abbot.
Wait… had he actually done that?
The fire abated… the darkness came. He hadn't seen it, he didn't know, but the greater his inferno, the greater his force, the taller the shadow stretched, and now it consumed him. It cooed that all would be good when they got rid of Rowen, and everything would be fine and right in his life once she was gone.
Rid himself of Rowen? Since when did she get here?
The darkness upon him made him slash wildly at Rowen, it begged its host to let it finish the job so, when all this was done and over, they could sit alone and have a nice long talk about what they were going to do. It told him to play on Rowen's weaknesses, to attack her left shoulder with all his might…
Why was he fighting Rowen? Why is she here? This isn't right, I killed Abbot!
The dark of his mind kept telling him that everything was right, he had killed Abbot and now Rowen would be next, and all those who had hurt him would be gone. The darkness took control of his body, it fought for him, bled for him, and inside, there he was: Abbot's death, by his own hands… Rowen's blood, to be next… right?
Yes…
But Lerris' lips moved, he mouthed the words at first, and suddenly reached through the hate in his heart and screamed, "No! This isn't right!"
Rowen had been angered and bewildered, the sinking feeling in her gut as he attacked her and she blocked and went offensive. And he yelled things at her, and he kept on fighting, and that feeling only got worse, debilitating her movements, cluttering her mind, clinging to her blood and bones and insides. But she couldn't stop, wouldn't stop.. her movements became heavy, and she felt like her body couldn’t fight anymore, even though she knew she could if she tried. Her hand swung and her fist and the hilt of her sword smacked Lerris on one side of the head, forcing him on the dirt on which they fought.
“So, if you think it’s God-d*mned wrong, why did you attack me? Why won’t you talk to me, elf, say something!”
She hit him again with the blunt of her sword, her blood boiling to make him hurt for hurting her, but her mind and her gut felt numb and cold inside for something else. It almost hurt, how much her mind tore her apart, it almost hurt how much she wanted to make him feel pain and how much she wanted to know what was wrong with him, but she both knew and wouldn't admit that the elf was right. This was wrong. And it wasn't with the fighting, and it wasn't with her—it was him.
Lerris rolled onto the ground under blow after blow, after the connection of the hilt with his body; the hate begged him to get to his feet. But by this point, something else bubble inside of him. It was not hate, not grim determination, but it was… concern. Concern for Rowen? He must have been going crazy, but he couldn't kill Rowen, no matter what she may have done.
And then the hate said yes; and then the head said…
He knew he was going crazy the, having conversations with himself in his own mind, telling himself these things about not harming Rowen. Since when had he cared about her at all? Since when did he have to tell himself not to do something? The hatred within him kept telling him to get up and attack. He cried out, and it seemed as if the forest itself had stopped and watched at attention. No animal moved through the brush, no leaf fell from the trees and no wind blew to disturb those leaves. Only two beings, one standing over the other, and the elf cried out once more.
Suddenly the hate that burned his heart extinguished, and Lerris Saphire felt… nothing. Drained, limp, the fire, the motion, the vision, all gone, and he came to his knees, and his lips worked, but no voice came. He kept moving them, eyes staring blankly at Rowen until, finally, three words escaped his lips.
"Please… kill me."
Rowen just stared. Her hand was wrapped around her sword, her eyes all livid with fury, the fury of old debts to be repaid and the anger at the elf who seemed too good to speak to her. Angry at how he acted, how he moved, how he spoke and didn't speak, for every fiber of what he was; and now this. Her grip on the hilt of her sword tightened until her knuckles were white, and her teeth bit down with her eyes of silver mirrors that reflected all the blinding bright of hate she saw that day.
“You want me to kill you?” she said. Her voice was shaking, with ire, with burning. “You want me to kill you?! I will kill you, understand that Sir Saphire, I’ll kill you and I’ll show you how much stronger I am. I’ll kill you, but...”
Her voice softened. Even shook, her sword still raised, her silver eyes falling from ire to something that could not quite be described in words. Eyes of silver pools of water that wavered and ebbed and flowed with the tide and wind and ripples of quiet motion.
The pools were deep with undoubtedly different things submerged in each, for they were different pools, and the things on the bottom were not clear; earth, stones, fish, sprites, fishhooks and fishing strings, many things invisible under the dark and the depth and the moon's reflection. Those were her eyes as the grip on her sword seemed to loosen and her anger fell, fast like hot iron in cold water, resulting in the unsteadiness of her being.
“... not like this.”
The steel disappeared in its sheath, the phoenix to bed before it came to life in scarlet. She held out her hand to help the elf to his feet, and she watched and waited. Lerris made no motion to grab her hand at first, the complete loss of feeling not only in his mind, but his body as well. He was lost, lost in darkness somewhere within his mind. Many moments passed as she stood there, hand extended to help him to his feet.
And then, he saw it; not Rowen, but something else… light. A light at the end of the tunnel, perhaps, or a fire in the thick of the woods. What he had failed to realize is that the darkness cannot create itself, because there must be a small light, for without it darkness could not exist; and when Lerris reached out and grasped her hand, he took a firm grip on that light and pulled himself off the ground, and out of the darkness.
It took him several seconds to realize he was just standing there holding Rowen’s hand. It didn’t even matter that he was holding Rowen’s hand, because it was him holding her hand, and standing there… not a shadow of himself. Lerris couldn’t bring himself to look at her; he could hardly bring himself to look at anything.
Rowen gazed silent at his diverted head. The twilight was long gone, and it was fully night now, black sky full of millions of bright lights, and two people underneath and in-between the cosmos of stars. The next step was obvious, but she just stood there, waiting, not knowing what to do. Something happened that day, something important, and she just didn't get it.
“Someday... I’d like to understand.”
It was the only thing she could think to say, the only important thing, the only thing that seemed to matter. She waited, standing and looking on with those silver pools, but she didn’t expect an answer. Not that day. Perhaps when they met again, ready to fight a real and fair battle to decide who was stronger than the other. Perchance, one day, before she killed him. But she didn’t move. Maybe she just wanted to hear him say something, given that he had almost said nothing, a perturbing thought under the circumstances. Perhaps she really did expect him to answer, though really more likely, perhaps she didn’t like being told what to do.
Silver ponds, fish, clutter, sprite.
Lerris slipped his hand out of hers, “Please, go now, if you wish to no longer kill me, then leave me to myself.”
After you, Sir Elf, her eyes challenged his with an inner spark of heat. After you.
Lerris turned away. She made no move to leave, and he turned his back to her, and then he realized he no longer gripped a sword in his hand. This time, he didn't care where the sword was… he didn't care, he didn't care.
He wanted not her eyes, so he looked out to the forest. The sudden silence put a strange feeling in the air after so much had happened that evening, after that murder in the night. He almost chocked when the realization hit him that he killed Abbot. He almost cried out in pain, but with the feeling of Rowen's eyes on the back of his head, he only screamed inside, his soul, yelling for his redemption.
“Maybe someday, Rowen…” It was all he could bring himself to say to answer her, he kept quiet after, not wanting to test the lump in his throat. He walked forward, into the thickness of the trees, into the thickness of the silence and disappeared from sight.
Moonlight reflected in his eyes as the silence of the forest night hung about him like a damp cloth. With careful deliberation, he walked through an expanse of undergrowth, stopping within a place where the ground rolled smoothly down into a grass-covered clearing. He lowered to one knee behind the thick trees, and hung his head.
He closed his eyes, and for the first time in years he wept, for the death of his master, his friend. He wept for himself, knowing that something as this could never be forgiven, no matter how hard he tried to repent.
But he wept nonetheless...
*I told you I would add some reference to a war that occurs simultaneously with the story; that was my way of doing so. I hope it's okay. I talk a little more on this conflict on the elf portion of the "Myth" thread I brought up in the discussion section. Also, I added in a bunch of italics; I wasn't sure if you removed them or if it was a formatting error. If you have any questions for why I changed some things, let me know so I can laugh and look the other way... no, just kidding. Let me know so we can see if we want to change it back. I did some weird, little things, like lower-casing "elf" because I thought the capitals were jarring. Happy editing
Abbot, oldest of teachers, oldest of friends; he had been the one to shove him off, to tell him away from his own. He said that Lerris would be better off alone, that this time away from his own would help him grow and find his own way on this earth.
*A darkness is coming, and you need to know you before you can know how to fight.
I've no qualms with anyone to choose to fight.
A walking stick in the old elf's hand and a few supplies, a calm smile upon his face, and Lerris watched him, dumbfounded: "Master, I don't need to find myself; I am right here… how hard is that?" Abbot didn't say anything; just a smile. At the time, it was just so preposterous that Lerris knew not what to say, and left without saying anything.
That was a distant memory, because Lerris was seventy… seventy something. Things like time and age lack importance when you're focused on Revenge.
A salmon returning to spawn; a wind-torn migrating gander. Lerris in Mirkwood; a washed-out puzzle piece returned to the picture that's as bright as new. Brown bristles collected against his face and chin, like the hair on his head, long and wild with neglect. Because when your mind is set on Revenge, you choose to forget emotions, save the base ones like hate. It is now, the elf is incapable of love of anything, and it is now that Abbot sees him, locks eyes with him, but there is no calm smile waiting: only a blank stare.
He breaks the silence first: "Lerris, my boy, look at y…" The young one holds up a hand and cuts him off, "Don't say anything to me, Abbot, because I do not think I have the time for the thing I would say back at you." Abbot shakes his head with a deep sigh that accompanies the movement, "I guess you aren't my pupil anymore. I suppose, at some point, I had to stop trying to teach you."
Lerris' eyes burn; he isn't sure why he is near tears. This man hurt him more than anyone had ever hurt; he wipes the tears away, wondering if they are tears of anger or frustration. No other words are spoken, but such a ring of steel fills the air like a horn of commencement, announcing the arrival of a sword. It is strange enough, Abbot makes no move to flee. No move to guard himself from what he seems to know is coming.
The only move Abbot makes is to smile. It startles Lerris, at first, to see someone like Abbot smile at him while he holds his sword in anger next to his head. "So are you going to kill me then, Lerris?" Abbot raises his hand to tap his left breast, "My heart lies here, my old friend; please, strike true."
Had Lerris still been within his mind, he would have dropped the sword and fell to his knees, letting tears overcome his face in choking sobs that shuttered against his chest-bone. Master would have touched his head in sympathy, they would have stayed alone, in the woods, and time would have taken them differently. He couldn't of looked into this old elf's eyes, let alone slain him, but his hate burns his heart, and this elf no longer cares for anyone but himself. So he lifts his blade, and even though he could have chosen the right way, he could have chosen the path of repentance, he makes his decision.
Not friendship, but spite.
Not love, but pride.
Not joy, but jealousy.
Not love, but moral outrage.
The pupil blinks, the master does not.
The body slid from one end of the blade, leaving in its wake, a streak of innocent blood and, with a thud, to the ground it fell. Silence enshrouded the woods, and Lerris' body heaved as he stood over the corpse of the fallen Abbot. In his mind, he felt like he accomplished all that he had ever wanted in life. Because the Darkness always wants you to know, no matter what you do, that sooner or later, there will be brighter days, and perhaps Lerris knew a little better, but he nurtured the Darkness inside himself so that everything else was in its shadow; and he thought he was alone, he and his Darkness, the one and only breathing thing inside these woods.
Enshrouded, he did not see the Fire.
"Rowen!"
She jumped the wood like a nimble hare, the leaves smacking against her burlap, leather, and naked skin, speed of a jumping deer, poise of a desert cat, heart alive with fire. The pine around her could burst with fire if they could, intense eyes, jocular disposition, she moved her sleek body amongst the wood with a purpose. Fast moving cedars flashed by, distorting the image of her—she had been there before. d*mn it all, she had been there before.
Rowen's silver eyes moved across the cluttered trunks, letting it all sink in, letting the recognition sink in her eyes. Momentarily stopped in a wide of the wood, she looked about the world that was coming back to her, bit by bit, moment by moment, time by time. She hadn't meant to, but she was here again. She remembered. She remembered as sure as the scar on her shoulder, she was in the wood, the home of the elf that wounded her, the elf she still owed in blood and pain and victory.
"Rowen!"
Not much was different about Rowen since last she came; she was only a few years older, no less c*cky, perhaps even stronger, and she was as ever the same thief who killed and plundered and took pleasure in the sword. Just as fiery, just as lively, just as spirited, every bit as-
"Rowen, where are you?"
Well, perhaps not everything was the same. A boy darted after, running after the wildcat like a lizard on water, all the direction the female lacked, none of the speed of the careless wandering of the woman he followed.
He emerged from the thicket. He was small and lean, not yet entered into adulthood, but old enough to survive on his own, for a little while. Though a child, there was something not altogether childlike about him—for all his cries and devoted searching. It began with his eyes. His eyes were old; his face was somber. Wide, circle eyes, like a child, but knowing, deep like ink, clouded like fog, pale-almost-gray clean face so young like a baby, so distant like the reflection on a surface of water. What ever it was, this thing, it shouldn't have belonged to a boy, but out of the branches and there he was, flesh and bone and blood and alive. As soon as he his head stuck out of the branches and boles of tree, his movement was stopped by the stopped body of Rowen, and he had to brake his heel against the forest floor or crash in to her back.
It was a deliberate move, on Rowen's part, ever aware of the thing that attached to her like an extra limb.
"Stay here, Byron," she said to her student, one that had been placed on her shoulders rather involuntarily. She turned to look at him with the front of a smirk playing on her lips, and her eyes narrowed with blaze. A very light smack on one of his cheeks, "set up camp right here. I have to go see about an old friend of mine."
She didn't wait for him to say anything before she took off at a run into the thicket, silent but for the gentle pat of rock and wood beneath her feet, a strike of a leaf against her limb every now and then. Once, and elf insisted against her sneaking up on people. She didn't listen; she never did. And if she was right, the same elf might know it tonight; and so she followed the sonancy in the air, the sound she thought was the voice of an elf who gave her a scar she would not forget, and who she had yet to fight again to show she was better. And she was better. She had to be stronger, she had to be smarter, and she would make him know it before the day was out.
It was time.
She hadn't planned on coming here… indeed, at first, there was regret, confusion, even anger; but as she heard the voices floating in the air, she could not be stopped, even by herself.
She skulked along the wood, slowing, hunched in shadow, coming closer to the beaten path. It was twilight. The sun was gone, but the light remained, and the sky was a smoky silk of gray and blue, the shadows on the earth making everything dimmer but still beautiful in its own light. The twilight was on the path, and Rowen was one who spoke against traveling by the road, such modes only taken by nightfall, and only to stalk and to prey in thievery. It was twilight, and her gut wanted only night. It was twilight, and everything glowed. She emerged from the cedar trees and came onto the pathway, growing cautious, eyes looking about the seemingly empty road for all signs of life. The birds, the plants, deer…
Elves.
"Sir Saphire."
She waited, still in silence; her eyes narrowed, her heart beat in her breast, the only sound for a moment or more.
When he heard his name, once-Lerris erected to his full height, ripping his eyes from the fallen corpse. There was no corpse, there was no woods, no sky, no darkness, no light. Abbot's death unlocked something inside himself, and that is what he saw: the beating of his own heart, this muscle inside his flesh, faster, faster, livid, red, blackened by heat and burning, translucent flesh from a fire within.
This, he saw as he looked for the voice that called him.
He clutched the blade he hadn't known till then still rested in his palm, and he raised it level with the place he heard his surname—his name, or his once name, they could call him that if they liked, this Lerris, this Saphire, and he could hate it still; it didn't matter, he did know that he wanted ever spoken again.
"Do you intend to speak my name and stay hidden? I have no time for shadowed beings in the night. Make yourself shown, so we may finish this quick; I have better things to do with my time."
The fire ate his name. The hate of his heart burned and corrupted every part of him, even the darkest parts; the darkness, his name, whatever was left of compassion and trust, and his voice dripped with contempt. It was clear while he spoke, he bade no suggestion: it was a demand.
Within the shadows, the bobcat smiled. She smiled at the voice, as she felt the sword on her belt, as she remembered the moments past, but not forgotten. She wasn't scared of the way he sounded, though she should have been; she wasn't scared of anything, ever, any place, any time, she should have felt the heat of his fire and known, should have been burned by the suffocating fumes of combustion coming off his body, but she knew none of it. She carried, with her, her arrogance as she slinked to the sound of his voice, that superior smile, those slits for eyes, that tilt of her head and the sway of her arms at her sides.
"Saphire…" Blackhawk hummed.
He crushed the darkness.
He crushed it under his heel, and the darkness scattered under the heat of the furnace within him. "You," he growled, the voice played in his head, a voice without a body, he couldn't see the body, the flames were too violent. The darkness within him receded to the far reaches of space; the furnace flared, and it crooned him, it wanted to help him forget his name. He didn't want to hear that voice, let alone see that body at that time, or any time, truly; but he listened hard anyway, to hear her step lightly on the forest path unseen, but the roar of the furnace was too loud to be dealt with. The fire inside became more than the darkness without; unlike the darkness, the fire didn't lie, didn't skulk in shade and shadow, it told him the truth, and even if it was a horrid truth, he embraced it, he welcomed it, he agreed with it, and more.
The fire is worse, because you let it in without even a fight.
"Do you remember me? I remember you," the woman's said. Her voice was everywhere, intoxicating, impregnating the forest with filth like liquor, and the forest swooned as it guzzled her poison. "I remember you and me, right around her somewhere; I remember steel, I remember blood. I remember telling you I don't like to be ordered around."
"Rowen," his mouth clenched in a wicked smile. She should have left as soon as he spoke her name. She should not have loosed her venom on he, this elf who no longer felt anything but hate. To her memory, he was just an elf who did not like to fight. To her memory, he had a name. For now, this Lerris Saphire was not about to back down, even if it was Rowen. Blood still dripped from his sword, and it begged for more.
"Now," said his predator-prey. "Come out where I can see you."
Lerris lowered the tip of his sword and stepped into the moonlight that shone through the trees and on the barren pathway; and there she was, just as he remembered her, and his smile faded—bathed in twilight and stars, her image of broken-mended thievery, muscle and heat.
She looked, and her eyes remembered and traced over memories, there for an instant, gone the next. One moment, she saw the clash of swords, one moment, a quiet twilight forest. An instant, blood and anger and dancing silhouettes by moonlight. Another, a lone elf, staring her down and bathed in the moon.
"Only death speaks in this forest tonight," Lerris held, fast, his sword. "If you choose to leave right now, it may not speak to you…"
He took several steps toward her, and lifted his sword, not even bothering for an answer; the dark elf feigned right and kicked her in the left part of her stomach. The elf didn't give warnings—the woman jarred; the elf didn't care about anything.
Rowen flew backward at the kick, surprised but fast regrouped as the flight turned to a skip back, and she landed and made for her sword. "Saphire," she tried to talk tall, hunched over the grip on her weapon, poised with her knees bent for dancing. "That's not very polite." Her boot slid back against the dry dirt as she solidified her footing, and she watched him, carefully, cautiously, though her eyes looked not all cautious. A mark of cleverness, unshakeness. But she was worried.
A nuance, nothing more.
He was different—she could see that; but in the balance between pride and intellect, pride won off every time. He made one dirty move, but that one didn't change the whole from being the elf who wouldn't even kill her the last time they met. It scorned her. It almost boiled her blood how he didn't finish it, like she wasn't worth finishing, how she was made to go on with a loss forever marked on her skin. She had lost. She didn't care if he said it was a draw, but she had failed that day. Things like that didn't go away; not until she had an old debt repaid.
"I can't know why in the world you would attack me just now, Sir Saphire—considering how amiable we were as we parted ways. Good friends, I'd say—wouldn't you?"
She drew her metal. The scabbard released the magnificent thing, her sword, her Xakaryas, and the metal of the phoenix bird ate the moon in all its fluid splendor, lighting the embossments of a long, elegant neck, down and embers. The sky did grow darker, and the twilight was gone, and Xakaryas swallowed the moon in the blue night. She held out her sword at the front as if to attack, but then she swung it beneath her belly as she made a low and respectful bow.
"I have an old score to settle with you. I want to even those odds today," and then, "what say you, Saphire!"
He charged.
Swords connected, she caught her breath in shock, he growled, he pushed forward his own sword, and Rowen pushed forward with hers.
He gave no warning… her mind went on.
He broke the lock and ducked, bringing the hilt of his sword straight up, trying to catch her in the chin, but was easily blocked and thrown back.
Why doesn't he say anything?
He left no time to catch breath as he went toward her right leg, her sword swung to block it, but connected with nothing.
Something…
His sword was already on its way back up toward her left shoulder.
Is…
The sword didn't connect, because Rowen was faster than that.
Wrong.
She brought up the blade just enough to block it as the edge of Lerris' met her shoulder. It bled, but did not go through—the sword cried out in anger that its master had not fulfilled his promise of her death, instead tempting it with her blood.
Saphire!
He almost apologized to it, almost, not quite; this elf did not care for apologies, he only cared for the kill; and on this night, he intended to get it. Besides, Lerris Saphire wasn't going to die. Not at the hands of Rowen-bloody-Blackhawk, at least.
Rowen let open her jaw as though to expel a cry as the steel pierced her skin, though from her mouth came silence. She pushed him back with the sharp of her sword against his own, and the pain of her shoulder sent shockwaves down her arm. It was the wound, that wound, right there, where he had struck. Where there was a prominent scar, now a bloodstain and a cleanly ripped length of tunic. She didn't think he would do it. She really didn't think…
Her force broke, and she slid herself underneath his arm, fast like lightning, steel sliding against steel as blue electricity bounced off the blades, and she eased herself behind him—shoved him back, clumsily, putting distance between.
He wouldn't… she thought to herself. That was it; that was the moment—that was the final indication, the final action that proved that something was wrong, something was wrong with him, and she didn't know what.
"What the hell's the matter with you?" she cried out, anger, confoundedness, don't show the pain, sweat built up on her forehead.
She let her sword droop down, the point resting against the dirt as she let her arm go limp at her side—but only for a moment. She regrouped herself to her former position, biting down the hurt in her shoulder as she lifted the weapon in a fighting stance. It hurt like all d*mnation, but she could take it. She wasn't going to look weak in front of him, not ever. She was better than that. Better than the pain, better than the scars, better than him.
"Why don't you say anything…"
He didn't say anything because this elf didn't take time to talk; because this elf didn't care, he rather fight, he rather kill.
"Answer me, d*mn you!"
Lerris Saphire would have answered her, could have answered her, but no. His elfhood was dead, but he wouldn't die, he wasn't about to die after changing his life in the killing of the former Master Abbot.
Wait… had he actually done that?
The fire abated… the darkness came. He hadn't seen it, he didn't know, but the greater his inferno, the greater his force, the taller the shadow stretched, and now it consumed him. It cooed that all would be good when they got rid of Rowen, and everything would be fine and right in his life once she was gone.
Rid himself of Rowen? Since when did she get here?
The darkness upon him made him slash wildly at Rowen, it begged its host to let it finish the job so, when all this was done and over, they could sit alone and have a nice long talk about what they were going to do. It told him to play on Rowen's weaknesses, to attack her left shoulder with all his might…
Why was he fighting Rowen? Why is she here? This isn't right, I killed Abbot!
The dark of his mind kept telling him that everything was right, he had killed Abbot and now Rowen would be next, and all those who had hurt him would be gone. The darkness took control of his body, it fought for him, bled for him, and inside, there he was: Abbot's death, by his own hands… Rowen's blood, to be next… right?
Yes…
But Lerris' lips moved, he mouthed the words at first, and suddenly reached through the hate in his heart and screamed, "No! This isn't right!"
Rowen had been angered and bewildered, the sinking feeling in her gut as he attacked her and she blocked and went offensive. And he yelled things at her, and he kept on fighting, and that feeling only got worse, debilitating her movements, cluttering her mind, clinging to her blood and bones and insides. But she couldn't stop, wouldn't stop.. her movements became heavy, and she felt like her body couldn’t fight anymore, even though she knew she could if she tried. Her hand swung and her fist and the hilt of her sword smacked Lerris on one side of the head, forcing him on the dirt on which they fought.
“So, if you think it’s God-d*mned wrong, why did you attack me? Why won’t you talk to me, elf, say something!”
She hit him again with the blunt of her sword, her blood boiling to make him hurt for hurting her, but her mind and her gut felt numb and cold inside for something else. It almost hurt, how much her mind tore her apart, it almost hurt how much she wanted to make him feel pain and how much she wanted to know what was wrong with him, but she both knew and wouldn't admit that the elf was right. This was wrong. And it wasn't with the fighting, and it wasn't with her—it was him.
Lerris rolled onto the ground under blow after blow, after the connection of the hilt with his body; the hate begged him to get to his feet. But by this point, something else bubble inside of him. It was not hate, not grim determination, but it was… concern. Concern for Rowen? He must have been going crazy, but he couldn't kill Rowen, no matter what she may have done.
And then the hate said yes; and then the head said…
He knew he was going crazy the, having conversations with himself in his own mind, telling himself these things about not harming Rowen. Since when had he cared about her at all? Since when did he have to tell himself not to do something? The hatred within him kept telling him to get up and attack. He cried out, and it seemed as if the forest itself had stopped and watched at attention. No animal moved through the brush, no leaf fell from the trees and no wind blew to disturb those leaves. Only two beings, one standing over the other, and the elf cried out once more.
Suddenly the hate that burned his heart extinguished, and Lerris Saphire felt… nothing. Drained, limp, the fire, the motion, the vision, all gone, and he came to his knees, and his lips worked, but no voice came. He kept moving them, eyes staring blankly at Rowen until, finally, three words escaped his lips.
"Please… kill me."
Rowen just stared. Her hand was wrapped around her sword, her eyes all livid with fury, the fury of old debts to be repaid and the anger at the elf who seemed too good to speak to her. Angry at how he acted, how he moved, how he spoke and didn't speak, for every fiber of what he was; and now this. Her grip on the hilt of her sword tightened until her knuckles were white, and her teeth bit down with her eyes of silver mirrors that reflected all the blinding bright of hate she saw that day.
“You want me to kill you?” she said. Her voice was shaking, with ire, with burning. “You want me to kill you?! I will kill you, understand that Sir Saphire, I’ll kill you and I’ll show you how much stronger I am. I’ll kill you, but...”
Her voice softened. Even shook, her sword still raised, her silver eyes falling from ire to something that could not quite be described in words. Eyes of silver pools of water that wavered and ebbed and flowed with the tide and wind and ripples of quiet motion.
The pools were deep with undoubtedly different things submerged in each, for they were different pools, and the things on the bottom were not clear; earth, stones, fish, sprites, fishhooks and fishing strings, many things invisible under the dark and the depth and the moon's reflection. Those were her eyes as the grip on her sword seemed to loosen and her anger fell, fast like hot iron in cold water, resulting in the unsteadiness of her being.
“... not like this.”
The steel disappeared in its sheath, the phoenix to bed before it came to life in scarlet. She held out her hand to help the elf to his feet, and she watched and waited. Lerris made no motion to grab her hand at first, the complete loss of feeling not only in his mind, but his body as well. He was lost, lost in darkness somewhere within his mind. Many moments passed as she stood there, hand extended to help him to his feet.
And then, he saw it; not Rowen, but something else… light. A light at the end of the tunnel, perhaps, or a fire in the thick of the woods. What he had failed to realize is that the darkness cannot create itself, because there must be a small light, for without it darkness could not exist; and when Lerris reached out and grasped her hand, he took a firm grip on that light and pulled himself off the ground, and out of the darkness.
It took him several seconds to realize he was just standing there holding Rowen’s hand. It didn’t even matter that he was holding Rowen’s hand, because it was him holding her hand, and standing there… not a shadow of himself. Lerris couldn’t bring himself to look at her; he could hardly bring himself to look at anything.
Rowen gazed silent at his diverted head. The twilight was long gone, and it was fully night now, black sky full of millions of bright lights, and two people underneath and in-between the cosmos of stars. The next step was obvious, but she just stood there, waiting, not knowing what to do. Something happened that day, something important, and she just didn't get it.
“Someday... I’d like to understand.”
It was the only thing she could think to say, the only important thing, the only thing that seemed to matter. She waited, standing and looking on with those silver pools, but she didn’t expect an answer. Not that day. Perhaps when they met again, ready to fight a real and fair battle to decide who was stronger than the other. Perchance, one day, before she killed him. But she didn’t move. Maybe she just wanted to hear him say something, given that he had almost said nothing, a perturbing thought under the circumstances. Perhaps she really did expect him to answer, though really more likely, perhaps she didn’t like being told what to do.
Silver ponds, fish, clutter, sprite.
Lerris slipped his hand out of hers, “Please, go now, if you wish to no longer kill me, then leave me to myself.”
After you, Sir Elf, her eyes challenged his with an inner spark of heat. After you.
Lerris turned away. She made no move to leave, and he turned his back to her, and then he realized he no longer gripped a sword in his hand. This time, he didn't care where the sword was… he didn't care, he didn't care.
He wanted not her eyes, so he looked out to the forest. The sudden silence put a strange feeling in the air after so much had happened that evening, after that murder in the night. He almost chocked when the realization hit him that he killed Abbot. He almost cried out in pain, but with the feeling of Rowen's eyes on the back of his head, he only screamed inside, his soul, yelling for his redemption.
“Maybe someday, Rowen…” It was all he could bring himself to say to answer her, he kept quiet after, not wanting to test the lump in his throat. He walked forward, into the thickness of the trees, into the thickness of the silence and disappeared from sight.
Moonlight reflected in his eyes as the silence of the forest night hung about him like a damp cloth. With careful deliberation, he walked through an expanse of undergrowth, stopping within a place where the ground rolled smoothly down into a grass-covered clearing. He lowered to one knee behind the thick trees, and hung his head.
He closed his eyes, and for the first time in years he wept, for the death of his master, his friend. He wept for himself, knowing that something as this could never be forgiven, no matter how hard he tried to repent.
But he wept nonetheless...
*I told you I would add some reference to a war that occurs simultaneously with the story; that was my way of doing so. I hope it's okay. I talk a little more on this conflict on the elf portion of the "Myth" thread I brought up in the discussion section. Also, I added in a bunch of italics; I wasn't sure if you removed them or if it was a formatting error. If you have any questions for why I changed some things, let me know so I can laugh and look the other way... no, just kidding. Let me know so we can see if we want to change it back. I did some weird, little things, like lower-casing "elf" because I thought the capitals were jarring. Happy editing