Bad me

[maderr]

I am working on other stuff, but this story suddenly didn't want to be quiet anymore. This is the one I'd originally wanted to do for Nanowrimo, but I was having problems with it and then Kidnapped took over. Finally fixed the problem with it, and now it won't shut up. So, I got the prologue and first chapter done. They're still being beta'd, so excuse any mistakes. They'll get fixed in due course. In related news, have written significant amounts for Treasure, Moon, and a Knight story. Have been poking lightly at various others. Have I mentioned how wonderful it is to be writing again? ^__^

The Blade and the Butterfly

Prologue: 1000 Butteflies

The Butterfly is a Sign of Evil and is Forbidden

"Once many years ago there was a kingdom so lush and green and rich and gold that it was the envy of all others. Monarch longed to possess it; people longed to be a part of it. The few travelers permitted within its borders found that they no longer desired to wander. A more marvelous kingdom did not exist.

Most wonderful of all was the Queen who reigned over its vast glory, a queen of summer hair and winter eyes. It was said her magic was the mightiest of all, divine magic gifted to her by the gods for some deed long forgotten. She ruled the kingdom well and was beloved by all. When everything began to go wrong, she had been ruling for well over two hundred years.

They called her the Butterfly Queen, after the beautiful little creatures that she loved so dearly. She took for her royal crest the one she favored above all others, a butterfly with black and violet wings. A butterfly that no longer exists.

No one knows what happened. Some say she made the eternally foolish mistake of falling in love with someone she could not have. Others say she simply became consumed by her power; still others believe she simply went mad. Theories abound, but no answers. The cause matters little now.

The result was that when the Mad Queen was finally defeated, all within the kingdom perished with her. The entire country was destroyed. Nothing remains today but a vast desert of black sand. This is, perhaps, why it is called the Graveyard."

"So...so why did this happen to me?" Teival asked, voice hoarse with tears. "I don't understand."

The priest seated across the table, kneeling on a pillow of saffron silk, sighed softly and set his pale green tea cup gently down. "That is only the legend, Tei. Reality is much more grim."

Teival nodded, tucking a loose strand of black hair into the knot at the back of his neck.

Sipping delicately at his tea, the priest resumed his story. "The truth of the matter is that we will never know what turned the Butterfly Queen into the Mad Queen. By the time anyone realized she had given her heart over to the darkness, it was too late. All we know is that she abused her ruling magic and became a Monster. Her rage leveled her kingdom despite all efforts to save it. In the end, no one was able to kill her. Her body they destroyed, but killing a Monster is not so easy as destroying the vessel in which it dwells. They broke the monstrous magic into pieces and sealed the pieces in various items. Her soul they sealed away as well, and carried all out of the desert and far away. As time passed, the items were lost. They too have become a legend, though only of us privy to some of the truth have heard it. Drink your tea, Tei. You will feel a bit better for it.

Reluctantly, Teival obeyed, taking two small sips before setting his cup back down on the dark wooden table between them.

The priest did not look entirely satisfied with his meager effort, but chose not to press the issue. "The legend is this: that the relics were carried out by the last of the Swordsman to various parts of the world, one relic to each Sword so that no one knew where the others were. This was done in hopes that the pieces would never be reunited. No one really knows for certain." He paused for another sip of his own tea, dark, strong and slightly bitter. "The soul was carried away by a priest, separate from the relics. No one ever knew where it went, nor did they really care. They desired only never to see it again.

He picked up his teacup and drained the contents, setting it down on the table with a firm clack. Pensively he regarded Teival, who stared miserably back, eyes red and cheeks stained with dried tears.

The priest was dressed in dove gray robes, a plain strip of lavender wrapped loosely around his waist. Teival, on the other hand, was naked. His skin was still too sore and raw to bear the touch of clothing; even the silk pillow upon which he sat pained him. Only the cool breeze blowing in from the open doors of the temple helped to ease his discomfort.

He was covered, head to foot, with butterflies. They danced along his forehead and cheeks, miniature ones climbing up the sides of his nose and kissing the corner of his mouth, larger ones running down his neck and fanning out across his shoulders and chest, vanishing into the dark hairs at his groin. One the size of a fist occupied the space between his shoulder blades, smaller ones spreading out from it to cover his backside. Down his body the black and purple tattoos traveled, wrapping around his thighs, hiding in the curve of his knee and vanishing as they traveled down his shins and to the undersides of his feet. Little of his flesh remained unmarred.

"I wish I had known," the priest said sadly. "All these years, and I never realized the Soul resided in one of my own temples."

Teival tried to smile, but failed.

"It's rather interesting," the priest mused. "I wonder why it has taken her this long to possess a soul. You are hardly the first to enter the old temple."

Teival did not look as though he thought it was terribly interesting. "I was supposed to be Blessed today." He fought back more sobs. "Not Cursed."

"Maybe it's a blessing in disguise," the priest offered, though he could not keep the doubt entirely from his voice. "Do not give into despair quite yet, Tei. She had been sealed for the time being, and tomorrow we will finish the sealing that you might begin your journey."

"I hope they can help," Teival said tearfully. "I can hear her whispering, like she's just too far away for me to understand but I know she's saying terrible, terrible things. I think she's laughing at me and it hurts my head---" he stopped, hugging himself and shivering though he far from cold.

"Finish your tea, Tei. And then you will get some rest. In the morning things will not seem so bad. Everything improves with the sunrise."

Part One: Blood and Blade

Those Who Shed Blood in Violence will Lose the Touch of the Lord


Chapter One

Candlelight glinted on the red in his strawberry blonde hair, making it look like pale fire as he bent his head to whisper in his fiance's ear. "Would it be all right, darling, if I left your fine feast early?"

Pink lips quirked in an amused smile. "If my feast is so fine, why do you desire to leave?" She laughed softly and kissed his cheek. "I shall you at lunch tomorrow, Salil?"

"Of course, Nova." Salil took her hand in his and kissed the back of it. "Bid your parents good night for me, and tell them I enjoyed the wine immensely."

"I will. Be careful, riding at night."

With a fond smile, Salil waved and slipped quietly out of the parlor where guests lingered after the sumptuous feast they had arranged to celebrate their engagement. He took a deep breath as he climbed quietly up the stairs to his bedroom, grateful to escape the cloud of alcohol, perfume and scented candles that had begun to make breathing a difficult endeavor.

In his bedchamber he rapidly divested himself of the velvet coat and breeches that had been stifling him all evening. He accepted that he must wear such garments, but he would never like it. From the back of his wardrobe he pulled out soft, well-worn black breeches and an equally old white lawn shirt. Black leather boots, too old and scuffed to ever be seen by the light of day, rapidly followed.

Lastly he retrieved a long, narrow box from beneath his bed. He handled it reverently but with great hesitation, like a child playing with his father's things while his parents were away. Pausing to grab a heavy, woolen cloak Salil bounded down the back stairs and toward the stables.

Moments later he set out, using the moonlight to guide his way. He rode for almost an hour, his hair flying out behind him in a wild tangle of loose curls, reminding him that eventually he would have to trim the locks to a proper short length. But that would not have to be done immediately, and so for now he enjoyed the feel of the wind on his face and in his hair.

As the bell back in the village struck the ninth hour, he dismounted in front of a small farmhouse and immediately went to stable his horse. Several minutes later, he headed for the field beyond the house and barn, hidden by a thick copse of trees.

The field was marked off in the center, forming a wide circle in which all grass and rocks and debris had been cleared. IN the center of the circle was a man, broad of chest and shoulders, hair cut short so that no strands got into his eyes. He had a wide forehead and strong cheeks, thin lips forming a grimace as he concentrated. Handsome in a rough way, he moved in strange sort of fluid dance back and forth across the circle, the full moon above his only light, glinting on the length of steel that seemed part of his dance.

Salil made his way quietly toward the circle, stopping at the threshold to set down his long box and flip it silently open. Moonlight caught the steel that lay within, metal whispering against silk as he drew the sword from its bed. On silent feet he approached the man practicing in the ring, swinging up hard as he spun around.

Steel rang against steel, as the solo dance became a performance of two, Salil and the other man dueling relentlessly, eagerly, beautifully. Metal flashed and sang as they attacked, dodged and parried, their cries and exclamations breaking the quiet of the night.

The duel ended as Salil managed to disarm the other man, sword flying out and landing too far away for him to retrieve it.

Salil panted heavily, breaths misting in the cool night air. "Not too bad."

"The same to you. Party bore you to death?" the man stalked toward him, eyes dark and chest glistening with sweat, an eager smile on his lips. "You're quite energetic this evening." He pulled Salil close as the other man stepped into his embrace, lips mashing together in a hungry kiss.

"I was bored out of my mind," Salil admitted before kissing him again, hands eagerly stroking damp skin.

"What say we go back to my cabin and I entertain you?" the other man said raggedly.

"I’m perfectly content to be entertained out here."

"You'll get cold."

Salil paused in nibbling the man's throat to smirk. "Only if you get sloppy, Papillion."

Papillion's hands were almost rough as he pulled Salil even closer, "I am never sloppy."

"Prove it." Salil licked at Papillion's lips before bruising them with a hard kiss.

"I'd rather prove it in my bedroom," Papillion grunted as he pulled back.

"I'm tired of rooms."

Papillion paused, some of his fervor cooling. "Then why do you insist on all the idiocy?"

"Let's not start that again." Salil frowned at him. "My answers have not changed since I last saw you. They will not have changed when next I see you."

"I do not understand!" Papillion burst out, passion gone completely as anger filled him. "You hate that life, you hate the trappings. You love this and you claim to love me but all I get is you in the after hours, when all your duties have been fulfilled." He held tight when Salil tried to break free of his arms. "Why not stay here with me? We can duel and love in the sunlight, instead of always in the dark."

Salil went cold and still in his arms, voice frigid. "How many times must I repeat myself, Papillion? I like my life as it is - I have you and a family, a career and good standing."

"Who cares about good standing?" Papillion snarled and shoved him away. "Mad Queen take your good standing! There are more important things than being a popular scholar with a pretty wife?"

"So I should as my father and uncle did?" Salil demanded. "Rejected and alone and homeless? Forget it - I spent my childhood shunned by everyone. I am not about to give up the life I've worked so hard for just because you don't like it! I warned you when this started that it would never be anything more. You said you could accept it."

"Only because I thought you would realize how stupid you were being."

Salil glared coldly at him, pale and angry beneath the moonlight. "Is it not enough that I love you? That I risk all I do to come here to you?"

Papillion returned the icy glare with one of his own. Mutely the two watched each other. "Please, Salil. Won't you come with me and give up the charade? It does not suit you."

"It suits me fine. If you don't like it, perhaps I should find another lover."

"No," Papillion shook his head. "Do not do that…I am sorry to have stirred up another fight." He held out his hand, "Come to bed and I will make it up to you?"

Salil watched him warily, surprised by Papillion's sudden concession and apology - usually they went on for hours before he ceased. At last he nodded, placing his hand in Papillion's. "Lead the way, lover."

When at last they fell asleep, only a slight shadow remained of their old argument. And the shadow was so familiar that Salil took no notice of it.




The acrid smell of smoke woke him.

Fighting the remnants of the deep sleep that had taken him the previous night, Salil dressed rapidly and went in search of his missing lover. The sheets were cold, so Papillion had been gone for some time.

Outside, ribbons of smoke could be seen coming from the direction of his village. Salil went cold - there was too much smoke for it to be merely chimneys or the blacksmith's forge. Not bothering to go back inside for his cloak, Salil raced for the stable and in moments was flying toward the village.

Cresting the hill to look down into the shallow valley below, Salil let out a hoarse, ragged cry.

The village was gone. All that remained was a charred mess, so obliterated that only his familiarity with his home allowed to figured out which charred bits had once been the homes of the people he'd grown up with.

He did not hear his own screams as he raced blindly toward the village, blind to everything but finding any sign of life. He called and yelled and screamed until his voice was raw and he could barely swallow.

Nothing remained. The smell of singed leather followed in his wake, as still hot embers marred the bottoms of his boots. He came to a halt before the ashes that had once been his home, face hot and streaked with tears. "Mama…Nova…" he dropped to his knees, sifting through the ashes. "Please…be alive…"

The sound of scuffing footsteps brought him up and spinning wildly around. He sagged with relief and misery. "Papillion…what…what happened?"

His lover didn't reply, merely looked at him.

Slowly Salil realized there were other men with him. As he took them in - six men, all armed with swords of varying shape and sized - he began to realize something was wrong.

Papillion was covered in soot and ash, his gleaming teeth the only clean thing about him. Something shone on the middle finger of his left hand.

A gold ring, set with a fat, bright purple stone. It almost seemed to glow, painfully bright amidst the ruin that surrounded them.

"You should have chosen me, Salil." Papillion at last spoke, his voice so hard and final that Salil barely recognized it. "Then you would have been happy to see the self-absorbed fools burn."

The words punctured the black mist fogging Salil's mind. "What…what do you mean?"

Papillion held up his left hand. "The price of its freedom was the blood of the unwitting fools who protected it. A price I gladly paid. I was tempted to let you burn…but though you clearly don't love me - I do love you. That's why I made sure you slept through it all. Was that not merciful of me?" Papillion held his hand out. "Come, Salil. Come with me. Those fools never really loved you, only what you gave to them by pretending to be what you were not. Come with me."

Salil was shaking, the black mist in his mind turning red. The urge to launch himself at Papillion was strong, and he fought it only because he knew that his fists were no match for steel. Ignoring him, he turned on a heel and walked through the remains of his home, cutting through what had once been the living straight into the kitchen cellar. Wiping away the ashes on the floor, he cleared a large piece of the stone floor there. Pulling the slate up, he revealed a hollow space beneath and after some fumbling he came up with a long cloth bundle wrapped tightly with string.

The trembling in his hands ceased as he unwrapped the sword that he had sworn to his mother he had destroyed.

A long sword, heavy enough that most would need two hands to wield it - Salil needed only one. The hilt was black and fashioned with the image of a silver spider, black jewels for its six eyes.

It had belonged to his Uncle Ove, and was all he had of his uncle and father. He had never wanted even that much.

Until now. Rising with aching slowness to his feet, Salil turned around and raised his sword. The old steel seemed to shimmer, rivaling even the purple jewel for brightness.

Papillion sneered and signaled his men to stay out of it.

There fight was brief, bitter and brutal. Papillion left the bleeding, unconscious Salil lying in the remains of his home, shouting to his men that it was time to leave. He clutched at his bleeding cheek, swearing as the ash and soot on his hand got into the wound and made it sting.

The group rode off, racing away from the razed village before someone arrived to discover the source of the smoke.




When Salil woke again, he lay still with his eyes closed, wishing and praying fervently to the Sacred Lord that everything he'd seen before was nothing but a grisly dream.

But when his dark blue eyes opened, his nightmare was all too real. Salil let out a choked sob and slowly forced himself to his feet.

Whether from cruelty or kindness, Papillion had knocked him unconscious with the flat of his blade. Salil blocked thoughts of his ex-lover from his mind, unable to cope wit that particular reality. Retrieving his sword, which was covered in soot and grime, he made his stumbling way out of the dead village and to the nearby stream. He dropped to his knees, numbly washing the ashes from his face, hands and arms.

He glimpses his watery reflection as the water carried away the mess that had covered him, seeing instead his mother's face, so much like his own. And thoughts of his mother spiraled into thought of his dead fiancé, his dead friends and companions, even his dead rivals at the small academy his village boasted.

Still kneeling by the stream, Salil began to sob, waves of grief and confusion washing over him until he saw nothing of the world around him.

Some time later he was found by a group of men from a village several days away, come to investigate the source of the smoke that had filled the air. He answered their question as though from a distance, only barely remembering to edit what had transpired, hearing in his voice the despair and dead defeat that seemed to flow through his veins like blood. He did not protest as they carried him off, recalling vaguely that it would be better if they did not see his sword.

Thankfully, they did not press him. Nor did they think to ask after his magic. For that, Salil was grateful, if only hazily. Because if they had though to press him, they would have learned he no longer was able to use magic.




Several weeks later, Salil departed the home of those who had been trying to help him. They protested, but it was in futilely. Still in a black haze, he returned to the place that had once been his village, retrieving the sword that had been hidden by the long grasses along the bank of the stream.

It looked as good as new, as though it had never been removed from its hiding place beneath Salil's house. It shone brightly in the sunlight over head, almost too bright to bear looking at.

He was dressed in fresh black breeches, a dark red shirt and black leather jerkin and boots. His horse was laden with saddlebags packed full for long travel. From the place where he'd hidden the sword, Salil had retrieved the few other objects that had been hidden with hit. A heavy, black leather sword belt was wrapped twice around his waist, holding a black sheath tooled with spiders. He slid the sword into it, and pulled a black wool cloak tightly around his shoulders. No trace of the sword was visible beneath the folds of the massive cloak, even as he mounted his horse and departed from the field.

For weeks a black mist had clouded his mind, keeping him in a state that was neither waking nor dreaming. But the grief had numbed, and eased to a degree that permitted him to rejoin the living, if only barely.

Once he'd been a prosperous scholar. His mother had been a popular musician; his achingly lovely fiancé with crystal green eyes her protégé. Together they'd overcome his black heritage, put to rest the ugly tales of his father and uncle, feared and hated by society for being Blades.

The mist in his mind was red now, and only one thought consumed him.

As though it was a dream, he recalled slashing open Papillion's cheek, had seen the blood flow and felt some satisfaction for it before he saw only darkness. He had drawn blood in violence. No longer could he use magic; that ability was gone, taken away by the Lord when his highest Law had been broken.

Which meant there was nothing holding him back. Salil would find Papillion, and would watch blood pour from his chest.

This was the thought that spurred him out of the valley in which he'd lived for twenty-seven years.