And the FBT Soap Opera comes to an end.
Jul. 22nd, 2005 12:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrThe irony of all of this is that today, up to the end, was a very very good day. I was actually remembering what I liked about the job...
...Then I got back from lunch and my IAM and the Assist Manager wanted to speak to me.
And I quote: "A couple of lawyers have complained that you're too abrasive and have asked that you leave the site."
So next Tuesday I'll be starting at a different Ikon site.
And I could ramble on and on but I'm tired and I don't feel like depressing myself more than I already have. The only thing that kept me falling apart right there was the fact that half my coworkers said straight up I was the best worker they had. My IAM said Ikon was pissed about it, and didn't want to lose me - apparently the upper echelons have been plotting for some time to give me my own site. So that's apparently in my future, and for now I'll be going to another (smaller) lawfirm.
So that's that. All my hard work, the fact I know the site better than even the assist manager, amounts to nothing because "a couple"off wussy petty cowardly pansy ass little fuckers lawyers say I'm "abrasive" when I know damn good and well I was never mean to any of them. I vent on LJ and at home; I would never take it out on the bitches themselves as much as I might want to.
Sarah listened to me rant and put up with my moodiness, and that helped. My dad called right when I needed him to, and that helped bunches.. We went to IHOP and saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory again (and no matter how depressed I am, that movie rocks my socks and I love it to bits. I want to go see it again...) and that helped more. I do feel bad for my coworkers though - apparently the IAM was freaking out about telling me b/c he hated doing it that much. And tomorrow was supposed to be a party for two birthdays...and now it's going to be my farewell party too...
Blah.
When in depression, make people read my stuff. It's only snippets of things, but I hope they entertain.
What I hate most is not knowing who I offended. Because I know I didn't do anything wrong, but w/out being told what I did at all, I'll never know for sure and I hate upsetting people, especially unwittingly...
Burning Bright: Prologue
"We are running out of time."
"Yes."
"I don't see how you're so calm about it. Don't you realize that we're now barely two steps away from destruction?"
"Nonsense," Princess Sonya Oranzhevy set down her glass with a soft clink. The light of the massive crystal chandelier hanging over the long, royal dining table set the orange scarf wound through her hair aflame. Fat, brown curls tumbled out with arranged carelessness. Her dress was a dark green, with an underskirt of orange and a lighter green. Gold rings glinted on her fingers, set with emeralds and amber.
Across from her, at the end of the long table, the two men with her were much more soberly dressed in blacks and blues. The man to her left motioned impatiently with his wine glass, the dark red contents sloshing dangerously close the edge. "Sonya, it's not nonsense. We saw the storm; we know the Storm Bringers live again. That means we're only a step away from the Firebird's resurrection."
"Only if we let the latest Candidate go to waste."
"If you hadn't noticed," Pyotr Krazny said through gritted teeth, slamming his wine down on the table. "It's getting harder and harder to get accurate prophecies from them. Whatever happened a few days ago, I have no doubt it will make it that much harder. And the Candidates are becoming harder and harder to find each time."
"Tsk, tsk, Pyotr." The man beside him chuckled. He titled his head slightly down to push his glass back up his nose, and strands of fine, dark hair fell forward into his face. He twisted his head to look at Pyotr. "So quick to worry. Enjoy your wine instead of tossing it about and relax. It is easier to think with a calm head than a hot one."
"It's a mystery to me you can be so calm, Dym." Pyotr sneered. "Seeing as you're not long for the Temple."
Dym snorted softly and resumed sipping at his wine. "It is not my fault the Candidates are becoming harder and harder to find."
Pyotr seemed suddenly to be enjoying the wine he had not spilled. "I hear ______ has a new way of killing them to get prophecies."
His words did not seem to upset Dym, beyond mild annoyance. "He is a charlatan and a fool. If his Majesty wants to cater to a fool, far be it for me to stop him. He will see the errors of his way soon enough, and when he comes crawling back I will be waiting."
Sonya laughed. "Men. Always with these power plays."
Both men chuckled. Dym looked at her in amusement, green eyes dark. "Compared to the games you play, my dear, we are but children."
"I play no games," Sonya said levelly. "I seek only to keep the peace you men seemed determined to ruin."
"Peace, my sweet Sonya," Pyotr said tiredly. "Is the sacrifice we make in order to live."
"I'm aware of that," Sonya returned coldly. "But Candidates do not come easily - each one we kill upsets a few more people. The populous must be appeased, because they are not capable of fully understanding the black cloud that hangs over us. All they know is that friends and family must die while we wait to see if we're avoiding the prophecy or not."
Dym shrugged. "And when the time of the prophecy comes and we survive, they will know all that died did so for a good cause."
The Ogre of the Black Mountain
Once upon a time there was a king and queen.
The king was not the best in the land, but he was far from the worst. He was rather more kind than his wife thought was wise, but he was fond of saying that she was his practical half and so together they ruled quite well.
Over the years the royal couple bore three children. Their eldest son showed every promise of being not just a good king, but a great one. He had his mother's golden hair and sharp blue eyes, but his kind smile came from his father. He was skilled with sword and bow, and at eighteen he left on a quest to win the hand of a raven-haired beauty, a princess from a far away kingdom trapped by a horrid witch. And the prince defeated the witch and freed the princess and took her home as his wife.
Their second child was a daughter, also with her mother's golden hair but her father's pale green eyes. Though she was severe like her mother, she had a laugh like bells and loved to dance and sing, and charmed a handsome knight who had been passing through. And when she came of age, they married and the royal family welcomed another into their home.
The youngest child was not like the others. He did not have his brother's grandeur or his sister's beauty. He did not favor swords or dancing, or even joining in the myriad festival and parties and dinners. He was quiet and given to studying, locking himself for hours in his small room or the library, reading book after book. Often a servant or family member found him asleep with his face in the pages, a candle burned down to the very last. And though his family tried to coax him out of his strange behavior, it was to no avail. Over time all the castle and kingdom considered the last son strange, for not only did he act unlike the others, he also looked different. His nut brown hair did not come from either of his parents, and his yellow-brown eyes were equally strange. And so the youngest child hid himself away from his family and court and over time they let him be, content with the King and Queen and their other two beautiful, wonderful children.
Until one day, while reading in the garden, the boy happened to look up at the sound of voices beyond the window and glimpsed a young soldier, smiling and laughing and so very beautiful to the prince’s eyes.
The next day the prince ventured cautiously from his library and into the garden, reading on a stone bench and waiting for the handsome soldier to once more happen by. And the soldier did indeed appear, and the young prince watched him shyly, but the soldier and his friends passed by the prince without even noticing him. And over the next several days this scene was repeated, for the prince was too shy to speak and knew of no other way to capture the attention of the fine young soldier, whom he’d learned was the Captain’s favorite and one of the best swordsmen in the kingdom.
But day after day the soldier never noticed the prince and by and by the prince realized he never would, because he simply was not interesting enough to attract a soldier’s notice. And so he once more retreated to his library and sat at the table by the window. But his books sat forgotten before him, as he watched the soldier go by and dreamed up a thousand encounters that would never occur.
Until one day his dreaming was halted by news of a dire nature.
The Ogre of the Black Mountain, quiet now for many years, had injure a soldier who’d ventured up the mountain on a dare (as young soldiers often do). A call went out, to hunt down the beast that lurked like a shadow on the mountain, and soon the handsome soldier vanished from the prince’s window in search of the glory that would come with at last defeating the evil Ogre.
Three days later words spread of the return of the handsome soldier, and how he was dying of a strange illness inflicted upon him by the Ogre. And the young prince went to see him, fear and worry spurring the usually quiet prince to demand to see the soldier.
And though he felt sick with dread looking at the handsome soldier so very sick and pale, he felt a spark of happiness when the soldier smiled and greeted him and asked why he had come.
‘Because you are sick,’ the young prince said. And he finished examining the soldier, and realized he knew what caused it, and that the only cure was up on the Black Mountain where the Ogre lived.
His words were ignored, by doctor and priest and family. For what would a silly boy who spent all his days locked away in his rooms know? And they told him to go back to his rooms, and not trouble himself with a soldier, and once again ceased to notice he existed.
And the young prince frowned, and grew angry, and determined that he would fetch the flowers to save his handsome soldier.
Taking only the barest essentials and a couple of books, the young prince bundled himself in his favorite dark green cloak and snuck out whilst the rest of the kingdom dined and fretted, and began his journey up the Black Mountain…
“Stupid brambles,” Zayn muttered as he pulled number one million and twelve from his hair. Or was it thirteen? The things hurt. His guide had said to avoid them if possible, they hadn’t said avoid them because they hurt more than practice sessions with Gail and Stefan.
That and they were everywhere. “Vast quantities of Scarlet Berry bushes populate the Black Mountain,” Zayn quoted irritably. “Take care to avoid them, as their brambles can prove quite troublesome. Understatement of the year.” He continued his slow trek up the mountain, thankful that his guide had been more helpful in regards to what to bring than it had been in what to avoid.
From a small pouch at his side he withdrew a small, black, leather bound volume. Pausing briefly, he pulled a stick of charcoal from behind his ear and jotted down a few notes of his own, muttering beneath his breath about brambles.
Shutting the book carefully, so as not to smudge the words he’d ink in later, the prince pushed on until he reached a small clearing noted in the guide he’d brought along. He collapsed by the pond with a relieved sigh, immensely grateful that his brother and brother in law, or one of the guard, was not along to make fun of him and his soft feet.
At least he’d worn his favorite pair of boots rather than a newer pair. And his older clothes. Mother would have a fit if he shredded one of the numerous outfits she’d had made for him in the hopes of drawing him out to show them off at some party or another.
134: Sweet Dreams
Chris ran, his feet splashing in muddy puddles, soaking his boots and jeans. He was tired, sore, really sore and rapidly losing patience.
But a job was a job and he'd do it right even when the patience ran out.
At least it was late enough and dark enough that even the busier sections of town were dead.
He cursed as he reached a T-intersection, looking first toward the hotel in front of him and then to either side - no sign of an eight, greenish-brown, seriously pissed off troll presented itself.
Then he was shoved hard from behind, barely going intangible soon enough to avoid the worst of it. Spinning around, he stared at the troll that had snuck up behind and avoided thinking about how it'd managed because he was already in a bad enough mood as was. Launching himself at the troll, he solidified at the very last second, sending them both the ground and in a perfect position to pin the troll down.
But his weight wasn't enough and the troll sent him flying up and back - again he barely managed to change in time.
He was more tired than he'd thought, if his reactions were that slowed. A split lip, black eye and bruised shoulder probably weren helping matters, but thinking about them definitely wasn't.
"Damn it Doug!" Where the hell had the imp gone?
But a second later a large, gray shadow dropped down on the eight foot troll and threw it off balance. They crashed to the street and several second of struggling had the troll pinned by both of them. Red-faced, panting and utterly exhausted, Chris shifted to reach his jacket pocket.
The troll sensed his chance and sent them both flying. Doug hit the side of a building with a sickening crack and fell to the sidewalk. Chris failed to go intangible, seeing black and stars as his head connected with what he thought must be brick behind him.
He slumped forward on the sidewalk, silently ordering the street to stop moving, and watched helplessly as the troll bore down on him. "So quadrupling payment for this Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up, determined not to die on his knees.
And looked up, to see the troll had frozen in place.
Chris blinked.
Rubbed his eyes, and blinked again.
Though the troll's eyes were moving, the rest of him seemed incapable.
Utterly confused, Chris glanced around the intersection for something that could have messed with a creature impervious to most magic.
And swore colorfully. "What in the hell are you doing here? Never mind." Ignoring his unexpected rescuer, ignoring the way the street still wouldn't stay still, Chris slowly made his way to Doug.
Gingerly he examined the imp's wings and back, legs and arms, and lastly his neck. Finding nothing wrong, he flipped Doug over and examined his front as well. He let out a long, slow sigh of relief. Only a few scrapes and bruises and a knot on the head that wasn't nearly as bad as the one inflicted by a goblin a few months back.
Still ignoring his now smirking rescuer, Chris limped toward the frozen troll. Reluctantly he turned toward Sable - Brennus - and pointed to the troll. "Will he stay like that?"
"As long as you like, beautiful."
Chris snorted in contempt of the ridiculous adjective, but stopped when he realized that made his head hurt more. Fumbling for a moment, he finally pulled a syringe from his jacket pocket and stuck it in the troll's arms.
Several minutes later he caught a boy of no more than twelve in his arms and laid him carefully on the street.
Fuck he hurt. So not fair that everyone got to pass out except him.
Hands settled on his shoulders from behind and for a split second Chris started to lean into them, attracted to the warmth and strength in them.
But then he remembered to whom those hands belonged, and forced himself to pull away, shoulders stiff as he examined the boy for serious injury. All was well, two for two.
Now he had to figure out how to get the boy back to his mother, and then himself and a six-foot one unconscious imp back to his ramshackle office.
"Would you like some help?" The hands landed on his shoulders again, supporting him.
And that was so not fair, because he was cold and sore and really tired and in no condition to resist that rough velvet voice or those hands. He wanted to say yes, and close his eyes and lean back—
But he wasn't going to because any sort of interaction with a demon was a bad idea. And no one did his job for him. Especially not a demon. Especially not Sable Brennus.
"No, I'm fine." Chris made himself pull away again and bundled the small boy in his arms, slowly struggling to his feet.
And there the street went spinning again.
Chris opened his eyes.
Then decided he preferred them shut. He spoke aloud, eyes still closed. "I don't know where the hell I am, but I know I'm not awake. So someone tell me what's going on."
"You're the detective, aren't you? The one that helps paranormals?"
"That would be me, yes."
"I need your help."
Chris opened his eyes and finally acknowledged the strange world he was in. Around him was an imitation of his office - the scuffed, worn desks he and Doug used, the beat up couch that with the desk formed a horseshoe around the front door. The threadbare maroon carpet, the barely matching curtains.
It was bad enough he had to look at the sad place awake. "What's going on here?" He eyed the creature standing a few feet away. Her skin was white and he had no doubt whatsoever it was as smooth and soft as any interested man could want. Her lips were dark pink, full and with the slightest hint of a pout - almost enough to distract from the small, sharp fangs. Her eyes were a clear blue, the lashes around them long, her nose small and elegant. Dark pink ribbons held her hair loosely back. No doubt it would be easy to pull the ribbon and send the long, brown tresses streaming over her shoulders. The pink dress she wore teased at her figure but did not show it.
A very good succubus, this one. "I need your help."
"Yes, I got that part." Chris sighed. "Elaborate."
The succubus licked her lips nervously, smoothing the front of her dress before clasping her hands to force them to remain still. "There's a human I've been feeding on." She spoke in a sudden rush, "I'm not going to kill him or anything--"
"One problem at a time," Chris said. "Something is preventing your feeding on him?"
The succubus nodded. "But I can't figure out what - and Tommy can't or won't tell me."
"Perhaps he's tired of being preyed upon by a succubus?" Chris asked.
"No, he's not! It isn't like that! He-" the succubus began to blink rapidly, her blue eyes suddenly too bright. "He wanted to find a way to put me in his world. But lately he has trouble just reaching mine - nothing I do anymore draws him in." Her voice dropped to a whisper, "It's almost like he's ignoring me ut I know he's not! He wouldn't!"
A succubus with romantic woes. That was a new one on him. "What's your name?"
"C-Cordula."
"My name is Chris." He scoured his brain for something to distract a crying woman. "How did you bring me here? Succubi have no effect on me and clearly that's not how you did it anyway."
Cordula sniffed, bringing her tears under control. In seconds she was once more a cool, collected succubus. "I made a deal with a dream guide. He gave me the spell scrolls I needed to find you here and I'll help with a mortal he's fond of.”
"Interesting. Do you have any more of those scrolls?"
"One. I had to use two of the three he gave me to bring you here."
Chris nodded. "Then can you use one to bring my assistant here? His name is Douglas; he's an imp."
Cordula hesitated and then slowly nodded. "I can if he's asleep. But if not, there's nothing I can do."
"Of course. But try for me. I detest doing a case without him."
The succubus reached into empty space and pulled out a small roll of paper. It was silver-colored, fine and delicate. Unrolling it, she laid it out flat on one of the desks and held out a gold pen. "Write his name on the top line, and focus on him as you do so. It should be easier for you to bring him, as you know him, than it was for me to bring you."
Nodding, Chris accepted the pen and signed Douglas' name with a flourish to the indicated spot. As he finished, the scroll rolled itself up and vanished.
Several minutes later, a very confused imp stood beside the dream version of his desk, blinking between Chris and Cordula.
Chris explained.
"Interesting," Doug said with a yawn when he finished. He sat down at his desk and dug out a notebook and pen.
Sitting at his own desk, Chris motioned for the succubus to take the couch. "Now, Cordula. Start from the beginning and tell me everything. Leave nothing out."
"I first visited Tony a year ago, and started to feed like always. But--" she was starting to cry again. "He never got upset. Never seemed to mind. It threw me, how happy he seemed that I just visited. Half the time he didn't even seem affected by my skills e just liked talking. So we talked, and I fed just enough to be okay. And one day he said he loved me, and that he wanted me to be with him for real - even though I told him I wouldn't be pretty outside of his dreams." She pulled a handkerchief from the air and dabbed at her eyes and cheeks. "He said he didn't care. And then a couple of weeks ago I started having trouble getting to him. Yesterday I couldn't reach him at all. And I know he wouldn't start ignoring me, so I'm worried something else happened to him!" She buried her face in the handkerchief.
Chris and Doug looked at each in uncertainty. "What's his name?" Chris asked finally, figuring it was better to stick to business than try and comfort.
"Tommy Fitz." Cordula sniffed. "He lives on the south side of town, on Apple Street, right by the river."
"Apple Street." Chris grimaced. "Got a house number?"
"201B. The second floor of the Madison Building."
Chris nodded, while Doug's pen flew. "Any idea who or what might be threatening him? Perhaps another succubus?"
"No," Cordula said firmly. "We don't intrude on one another's territory. As for outside She shrugged. "He's just a lonely schoolteacher who dabbles in alchemy. Barely talks to the other teachers or the kids, because they all think he's strange. His neighbor, a black witch, is the only one he gets along with, and all they do is talk from time to time. Sometime she fixes him dinner, and he fixes her car when it needs it."
"Hmm Chris rubbed his chin. "He's done nothing unusual since all of this started? No new hobbies? No strange alchemical experiments?"
"Only the one he's using to take me outside. But he talks about that all the time. There's no danger involved for him until the end - and that wouldn't cut him off. It would leave him trapped here."
"Think hard," Chris said sharply. "There must be something strange that would help explain why you can no longer reach him. Are you certain he hasn't found a real life lover?"
Cordula glared. "He loves me. And besides, if he had someone like that, I would no longer be able to reach him at all."
"True. It's the loneliness that Succubi use to initially reach their victims. So it probably is an outside force." Chris fell silent as he thought. "Is there anything else you can think to tell us?"
"Nothing. I wish I could help more, but I've told you all I know."
Chris nodded and stood. "All right then. We'll investigate further once we wake up. Assuming all goes well, you'll know when we've succeeded."
"And what is your fee?" Cordula smoothed her dress. She looked up at Chris. "I will pay it, of course."
"Fees will be discussed when I've succeeded." Chris smiled. "I don't accept payment until I've solved the problem." He paused. "Any idea how to wake us up?"
Cordula laughed and spoke a word Chris didn't know - then the dream world faded out.
Prisoner: Chapter Two
Beraht woke slowly, wishing desperately to back to sleep and avoid the ache he could already feel in his head. Served him right, using that much magic at once.
Of course, if he hadn't he'd be dead but at the moment that really didn't seem like such a terrible idea.
Finally forcing his eyes open, Beraht immediately took in the unique cloak that covered him. Of heavy black wool, the bottom and top were heavily trimmed with gray wolf fur.
He threw it off and clambered to his feet - then regretted it. Mother Goddess he hated winter.
Food was cooking on a spit over a small campfire, a bucket of water nearby. Beraht glanced up, noting that the sun was going down. Great, he woke just in time for it to get colder.
If the cloak hadn't belong to the bastard General, he'd reassume it and go back to sleep.
Where was the bastard General anyway?
He was sorely tempted to run for it. But he had no food, inadequate gear thanks to stupid soldiers taking half his clothes and tearing the rest - Goddess he was cold - and he had no idea where he was. Except still in Kria.
Surely life couldn't get much worse.
The sound of something coming through the trees and bushes had him spinning around, tensed to put up whatever fight he could.
And there was his other reason for not running away. He wanted the bastard General to take his name away. Beraht eyed him warily as the General first moved to fetch his heavy cloak, then moved toward him.
Beraht looked up as he drew close.
And up.
Just how much Arcen had he been on? How exhausted had he been? To not notice the man was a good five inches or more taller than him? And built like he probably killed the wolf on his cloak with his bare hands? Before breakfast?
No wonder they'd told him to go after the Scarlet. How had it not turned into a suicidal mission?
Sheer dumb bad luck, that's how. Firs the Seven Star tattoo, then finding out the Seven Star didn't want him. Then told he had to kill 1000 people - at least - before they'd consider him. Then told it had to be the Scarlet.
And now General von Adolwulf was looking at him like he would quite cheerfully like to throw him in the fire.
The feeling was entirely mutual, and the size of a mountain or not the bastard General was going to know that.
"You're finally awake."
"You're so observant."
Beraht wondered how many soldiers in a day got glared at like that. He sobered, recalling suddenly that they no longer had to worry about the General's glares.
Which reminded him - why had the Illussor been after him?
Great. So his own people wanted him dead. The Krians wanted him dead. The Illussor wanted him…for something.
The next time death came up as an option he was going to take it.
He didn't bother to fight when von Adolwulf grabbed what was left of his shirt and hauled him close. Looking up was going to give him a crick in the neck eventually, but for now he'd manage.
"You'd do well to remember, Beraht, that you are my prisoner. And after what happened to my men, I will not be so kind as to kill you."
Beraht's anger flared anew at the sound of his new, hated name. Damn it, he'd been earning a real name from his Brothers. He would have belonged, would have had a place and a full Star. Instead he was now worse than Nameless and the star at his back would never go past yellow. "It's not my fault!"
"Winter's Tits it's not! Why!" von Adolwulf threw him to the ground. "Why? Why would the Illussor want a worthless Salharan?"
"When you figure it out let me know," Beraht snapped, picking himself up off the hard, cold ground.
"If I were you, Beraht, I would cease being flippant." The general's eyes were a strange mix of gray and green. Currently they were as hard as stone.
It really was no wonder everyone was terrified of the bastard. Beraht shoved away his own trepidation. Maybe if he angered him enough, von Adolwulf would lose his temper and beat him to death. Not a pleasant way to die, but he would take what he could get. "Sorry, flippant is the only way I know to be. If you don't like it, ignore me or kill me." This time when the General came after him, Beraht braced himself and attempted to fight back, dodging away from the hand that reached out to grasp him.
But fighting without magic was hard to do. Especially against a man who made wild bears look small. Just how far gone had he really been?
Beraht hit the ground with a pained grunt, the breath knocked out of his lungs, unable to see clearly for a second. But when his vision did clear, he saw all too well the anger and pain that filled the General's face.
"My men are dead. All of them. Not through battle defending their homeland or reclaiming lost ground. Not for a cause. But because the Illussor wanted you badly enough they Screamed. "
"That Scream could have killed us too, you know." But the heat had gone out of his voice, though he wanted it back. Every fiber in his body railed against the man pinning him down.
The Wolf of the Scarlet. His own men were terrified of him. Salharan soldiers dreaded hearing his name. None of them ever expected to live to see the day after a battle against him.
And now his gray-green eyes were the color of storm-tossed leaves, dark and bright, full of anger but also pain. If Beraht were a weaker man, he might almost feel sorry.
But no one had ever given him sympathy. He'd be damned if he gave it to a General who scared even his own men to death. "If I hadn't still had yellow Arcen in my boot, we'd both be dead. General. So maybe you're angry - though I think that's normal for you - but it's not my fault. I'm as ignorant as you."
With a rough, muttered curse the General released him and roughly hauled Beraht to his feet. "Keep your mouth shut," he said, brutally grabbing Beraht's chin and forcing him to look up. "Do as I say. Try to run and I will cut off your feet."
Beraht narrowed his eyes and dug his nails into the wrist that held him. "General, one day you'll grow sick of me. You'll try to rid yourself of me. But it won't happen. I'll not leave your side until you take away my name. I refuse to live quietly with the name you've shamed me with. So don't get your hopes up about cutting off my feet."
The General's grin was nothing less than wolfish when he let go of Beraht, not affected at all by the bloody marks left by Beraht's nails. "Do your worst. The more excuses I have to beat you, the better."
"You don't strike me as the type to need an excuse."
"Think what you like." He turned away, dismissing Beraht entirely to examine their dinner, which had singed slightly. "Come. Eat."
Beraht for a moment thought to refuse, but his stomach growled and he was forced to admit - to himself - that a war, even a private one, could not be waged on an empty stomach. Reluctantly he sat down and accepted what the General gave him, eyeing it warily before biting into meat that, though singed, was the best thing he'd had in months.
"You need clothes."
"Wouldn't you prefer to see me freeze to death slowly?"
"Not until I've paid you back for killing my men."
"The Illussor killed your men." Beraht glared. "I had nothing to do with it."
"You were the motive."
"Unwitting."
"Irrelevant."
"You're every bit the bastard I've always heard you to be."
The General sneered. "Hoping to regain ground with compliments?"
"There is nothing about you worthy of complimenting."
Not bothering to respond, the General rose to his feet and strode to a set of saddlebags hanging from a tree. Rifling through it, he pulled out a shirt and over tunic.
"Those are far too big for me."
"If you do not put them on, I will put them on for you."
Finishing his meat, Beraht through the stick to the ground and snatched at the clothes held out to him. "Would you like to search me for pollution before I change?"
"I already did," the General said smugly.
Biting off his curses, refusing to let the thrice-cursed Krian see how disconcerting that statement was to him, Beraht began to strip out of the scraps of his old clothes.
And that's all I've got.
...Then I got back from lunch and my IAM and the Assist Manager wanted to speak to me.
And I quote: "A couple of lawyers have complained that you're too abrasive and have asked that you leave the site."
So next Tuesday I'll be starting at a different Ikon site.
And I could ramble on and on but I'm tired and I don't feel like depressing myself more than I already have. The only thing that kept me falling apart right there was the fact that half my coworkers said straight up I was the best worker they had. My IAM said Ikon was pissed about it, and didn't want to lose me - apparently the upper echelons have been plotting for some time to give me my own site. So that's apparently in my future, and for now I'll be going to another (smaller) lawfirm.
So that's that. All my hard work, the fact I know the site better than even the assist manager, amounts to nothing because "a couple"
Sarah listened to me rant and put up with my moodiness, and that helped. My dad called right when I needed him to, and that helped bunches.. We went to IHOP and saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory again (and no matter how depressed I am, that movie rocks my socks and I love it to bits. I want to go see it again...) and that helped more. I do feel bad for my coworkers though - apparently the IAM was freaking out about telling me b/c he hated doing it that much. And tomorrow was supposed to be a party for two birthdays...and now it's going to be my farewell party too...
Blah.
When in depression, make people read my stuff. It's only snippets of things, but I hope they entertain.
What I hate most is not knowing who I offended. Because I know I didn't do anything wrong, but w/out being told what I did at all, I'll never know for sure and I hate upsetting people, especially unwittingly...
Burning Bright: Prologue
"We are running out of time."
"Yes."
"I don't see how you're so calm about it. Don't you realize that we're now barely two steps away from destruction?"
"Nonsense," Princess Sonya Oranzhevy set down her glass with a soft clink. The light of the massive crystal chandelier hanging over the long, royal dining table set the orange scarf wound through her hair aflame. Fat, brown curls tumbled out with arranged carelessness. Her dress was a dark green, with an underskirt of orange and a lighter green. Gold rings glinted on her fingers, set with emeralds and amber.
Across from her, at the end of the long table, the two men with her were much more soberly dressed in blacks and blues. The man to her left motioned impatiently with his wine glass, the dark red contents sloshing dangerously close the edge. "Sonya, it's not nonsense. We saw the storm; we know the Storm Bringers live again. That means we're only a step away from the Firebird's resurrection."
"Only if we let the latest Candidate go to waste."
"If you hadn't noticed," Pyotr Krazny said through gritted teeth, slamming his wine down on the table. "It's getting harder and harder to get accurate prophecies from them. Whatever happened a few days ago, I have no doubt it will make it that much harder. And the Candidates are becoming harder and harder to find each time."
"Tsk, tsk, Pyotr." The man beside him chuckled. He titled his head slightly down to push his glass back up his nose, and strands of fine, dark hair fell forward into his face. He twisted his head to look at Pyotr. "So quick to worry. Enjoy your wine instead of tossing it about and relax. It is easier to think with a calm head than a hot one."
"It's a mystery to me you can be so calm, Dym." Pyotr sneered. "Seeing as you're not long for the Temple."
Dym snorted softly and resumed sipping at his wine. "It is not my fault the Candidates are becoming harder and harder to find."
Pyotr seemed suddenly to be enjoying the wine he had not spilled. "I hear ______ has a new way of killing them to get prophecies."
His words did not seem to upset Dym, beyond mild annoyance. "He is a charlatan and a fool. If his Majesty wants to cater to a fool, far be it for me to stop him. He will see the errors of his way soon enough, and when he comes crawling back I will be waiting."
Sonya laughed. "Men. Always with these power plays."
Both men chuckled. Dym looked at her in amusement, green eyes dark. "Compared to the games you play, my dear, we are but children."
"I play no games," Sonya said levelly. "I seek only to keep the peace you men seemed determined to ruin."
"Peace, my sweet Sonya," Pyotr said tiredly. "Is the sacrifice we make in order to live."
"I'm aware of that," Sonya returned coldly. "But Candidates do not come easily - each one we kill upsets a few more people. The populous must be appeased, because they are not capable of fully understanding the black cloud that hangs over us. All they know is that friends and family must die while we wait to see if we're avoiding the prophecy or not."
Dym shrugged. "And when the time of the prophecy comes and we survive, they will know all that died did so for a good cause."
The Ogre of the Black Mountain
Once upon a time there was a king and queen.
The king was not the best in the land, but he was far from the worst. He was rather more kind than his wife thought was wise, but he was fond of saying that she was his practical half and so together they ruled quite well.
Over the years the royal couple bore three children. Their eldest son showed every promise of being not just a good king, but a great one. He had his mother's golden hair and sharp blue eyes, but his kind smile came from his father. He was skilled with sword and bow, and at eighteen he left on a quest to win the hand of a raven-haired beauty, a princess from a far away kingdom trapped by a horrid witch. And the prince defeated the witch and freed the princess and took her home as his wife.
Their second child was a daughter, also with her mother's golden hair but her father's pale green eyes. Though she was severe like her mother, she had a laugh like bells and loved to dance and sing, and charmed a handsome knight who had been passing through. And when she came of age, they married and the royal family welcomed another into their home.
The youngest child was not like the others. He did not have his brother's grandeur or his sister's beauty. He did not favor swords or dancing, or even joining in the myriad festival and parties and dinners. He was quiet and given to studying, locking himself for hours in his small room or the library, reading book after book. Often a servant or family member found him asleep with his face in the pages, a candle burned down to the very last. And though his family tried to coax him out of his strange behavior, it was to no avail. Over time all the castle and kingdom considered the last son strange, for not only did he act unlike the others, he also looked different. His nut brown hair did not come from either of his parents, and his yellow-brown eyes were equally strange. And so the youngest child hid himself away from his family and court and over time they let him be, content with the King and Queen and their other two beautiful, wonderful children.
Until one day, while reading in the garden, the boy happened to look up at the sound of voices beyond the window and glimpsed a young soldier, smiling and laughing and so very beautiful to the prince’s eyes.
The next day the prince ventured cautiously from his library and into the garden, reading on a stone bench and waiting for the handsome soldier to once more happen by. And the soldier did indeed appear, and the young prince watched him shyly, but the soldier and his friends passed by the prince without even noticing him. And over the next several days this scene was repeated, for the prince was too shy to speak and knew of no other way to capture the attention of the fine young soldier, whom he’d learned was the Captain’s favorite and one of the best swordsmen in the kingdom.
But day after day the soldier never noticed the prince and by and by the prince realized he never would, because he simply was not interesting enough to attract a soldier’s notice. And so he once more retreated to his library and sat at the table by the window. But his books sat forgotten before him, as he watched the soldier go by and dreamed up a thousand encounters that would never occur.
Until one day his dreaming was halted by news of a dire nature.
The Ogre of the Black Mountain, quiet now for many years, had injure a soldier who’d ventured up the mountain on a dare (as young soldiers often do). A call went out, to hunt down the beast that lurked like a shadow on the mountain, and soon the handsome soldier vanished from the prince’s window in search of the glory that would come with at last defeating the evil Ogre.
Three days later words spread of the return of the handsome soldier, and how he was dying of a strange illness inflicted upon him by the Ogre. And the young prince went to see him, fear and worry spurring the usually quiet prince to demand to see the soldier.
And though he felt sick with dread looking at the handsome soldier so very sick and pale, he felt a spark of happiness when the soldier smiled and greeted him and asked why he had come.
‘Because you are sick,’ the young prince said. And he finished examining the soldier, and realized he knew what caused it, and that the only cure was up on the Black Mountain where the Ogre lived.
His words were ignored, by doctor and priest and family. For what would a silly boy who spent all his days locked away in his rooms know? And they told him to go back to his rooms, and not trouble himself with a soldier, and once again ceased to notice he existed.
And the young prince frowned, and grew angry, and determined that he would fetch the flowers to save his handsome soldier.
Taking only the barest essentials and a couple of books, the young prince bundled himself in his favorite dark green cloak and snuck out whilst the rest of the kingdom dined and fretted, and began his journey up the Black Mountain…
“Stupid brambles,” Zayn muttered as he pulled number one million and twelve from his hair. Or was it thirteen? The things hurt. His guide had said to avoid them if possible, they hadn’t said avoid them because they hurt more than practice sessions with Gail and Stefan.
That and they were everywhere. “Vast quantities of Scarlet Berry bushes populate the Black Mountain,” Zayn quoted irritably. “Take care to avoid them, as their brambles can prove quite troublesome. Understatement of the year.” He continued his slow trek up the mountain, thankful that his guide had been more helpful in regards to what to bring than it had been in what to avoid.
From a small pouch at his side he withdrew a small, black, leather bound volume. Pausing briefly, he pulled a stick of charcoal from behind his ear and jotted down a few notes of his own, muttering beneath his breath about brambles.
Shutting the book carefully, so as not to smudge the words he’d ink in later, the prince pushed on until he reached a small clearing noted in the guide he’d brought along. He collapsed by the pond with a relieved sigh, immensely grateful that his brother and brother in law, or one of the guard, was not along to make fun of him and his soft feet.
At least he’d worn his favorite pair of boots rather than a newer pair. And his older clothes. Mother would have a fit if he shredded one of the numerous outfits she’d had made for him in the hopes of drawing him out to show them off at some party or another.
134: Sweet Dreams
Chris ran, his feet splashing in muddy puddles, soaking his boots and jeans. He was tired, sore, really sore and rapidly losing patience.
But a job was a job and he'd do it right even when the patience ran out.
At least it was late enough and dark enough that even the busier sections of town were dead.
He cursed as he reached a T-intersection, looking first toward the hotel in front of him and then to either side - no sign of an eight, greenish-brown, seriously pissed off troll presented itself.
Then he was shoved hard from behind, barely going intangible soon enough to avoid the worst of it. Spinning around, he stared at the troll that had snuck up behind and avoided thinking about how it'd managed because he was already in a bad enough mood as was. Launching himself at the troll, he solidified at the very last second, sending them both the ground and in a perfect position to pin the troll down.
But his weight wasn't enough and the troll sent him flying up and back - again he barely managed to change in time.
He was more tired than he'd thought, if his reactions were that slowed. A split lip, black eye and bruised shoulder probably weren helping matters, but thinking about them definitely wasn't.
"Damn it Doug!" Where the hell had the imp gone?
But a second later a large, gray shadow dropped down on the eight foot troll and threw it off balance. They crashed to the street and several second of struggling had the troll pinned by both of them. Red-faced, panting and utterly exhausted, Chris shifted to reach his jacket pocket.
The troll sensed his chance and sent them both flying. Doug hit the side of a building with a sickening crack and fell to the sidewalk. Chris failed to go intangible, seeing black and stars as his head connected with what he thought must be brick behind him.
He slumped forward on the sidewalk, silently ordering the street to stop moving, and watched helplessly as the troll bore down on him. "So quadrupling payment for this Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up, determined not to die on his knees.
And looked up, to see the troll had frozen in place.
Chris blinked.
Rubbed his eyes, and blinked again.
Though the troll's eyes were moving, the rest of him seemed incapable.
Utterly confused, Chris glanced around the intersection for something that could have messed with a creature impervious to most magic.
And swore colorfully. "What in the hell are you doing here? Never mind." Ignoring his unexpected rescuer, ignoring the way the street still wouldn't stay still, Chris slowly made his way to Doug.
Gingerly he examined the imp's wings and back, legs and arms, and lastly his neck. Finding nothing wrong, he flipped Doug over and examined his front as well. He let out a long, slow sigh of relief. Only a few scrapes and bruises and a knot on the head that wasn't nearly as bad as the one inflicted by a goblin a few months back.
Still ignoring his now smirking rescuer, Chris limped toward the frozen troll. Reluctantly he turned toward Sable - Brennus - and pointed to the troll. "Will he stay like that?"
"As long as you like, beautiful."
Chris snorted in contempt of the ridiculous adjective, but stopped when he realized that made his head hurt more. Fumbling for a moment, he finally pulled a syringe from his jacket pocket and stuck it in the troll's arms.
Several minutes later he caught a boy of no more than twelve in his arms and laid him carefully on the street.
Fuck he hurt. So not fair that everyone got to pass out except him.
Hands settled on his shoulders from behind and for a split second Chris started to lean into them, attracted to the warmth and strength in them.
But then he remembered to whom those hands belonged, and forced himself to pull away, shoulders stiff as he examined the boy for serious injury. All was well, two for two.
Now he had to figure out how to get the boy back to his mother, and then himself and a six-foot one unconscious imp back to his ramshackle office.
"Would you like some help?" The hands landed on his shoulders again, supporting him.
And that was so not fair, because he was cold and sore and really tired and in no condition to resist that rough velvet voice or those hands. He wanted to say yes, and close his eyes and lean back—
But he wasn't going to because any sort of interaction with a demon was a bad idea. And no one did his job for him. Especially not a demon. Especially not Sable Brennus.
"No, I'm fine." Chris made himself pull away again and bundled the small boy in his arms, slowly struggling to his feet.
And there the street went spinning again.
*~*~*~*
Chris opened his eyes.
Then decided he preferred them shut. He spoke aloud, eyes still closed. "I don't know where the hell I am, but I know I'm not awake. So someone tell me what's going on."
"You're the detective, aren't you? The one that helps paranormals?"
"That would be me, yes."
"I need your help."
Chris opened his eyes and finally acknowledged the strange world he was in. Around him was an imitation of his office - the scuffed, worn desks he and Doug used, the beat up couch that with the desk formed a horseshoe around the front door. The threadbare maroon carpet, the barely matching curtains.
It was bad enough he had to look at the sad place awake. "What's going on here?" He eyed the creature standing a few feet away. Her skin was white and he had no doubt whatsoever it was as smooth and soft as any interested man could want. Her lips were dark pink, full and with the slightest hint of a pout - almost enough to distract from the small, sharp fangs. Her eyes were a clear blue, the lashes around them long, her nose small and elegant. Dark pink ribbons held her hair loosely back. No doubt it would be easy to pull the ribbon and send the long, brown tresses streaming over her shoulders. The pink dress she wore teased at her figure but did not show it.
A very good succubus, this one. "I need your help."
"Yes, I got that part." Chris sighed. "Elaborate."
The succubus licked her lips nervously, smoothing the front of her dress before clasping her hands to force them to remain still. "There's a human I've been feeding on." She spoke in a sudden rush, "I'm not going to kill him or anything--"
"One problem at a time," Chris said. "Something is preventing your feeding on him?"
The succubus nodded. "But I can't figure out what - and Tommy can't or won't tell me."
"Perhaps he's tired of being preyed upon by a succubus?" Chris asked.
"No, he's not! It isn't like that! He-" the succubus began to blink rapidly, her blue eyes suddenly too bright. "He wanted to find a way to put me in his world. But lately he has trouble just reaching mine - nothing I do anymore draws him in." Her voice dropped to a whisper, "It's almost like he's ignoring me ut I know he's not! He wouldn't!"
A succubus with romantic woes. That was a new one on him. "What's your name?"
"C-Cordula."
"My name is Chris." He scoured his brain for something to distract a crying woman. "How did you bring me here? Succubi have no effect on me and clearly that's not how you did it anyway."
Cordula sniffed, bringing her tears under control. In seconds she was once more a cool, collected succubus. "I made a deal with a dream guide. He gave me the spell scrolls I needed to find you here and I'll help with a mortal he's fond of.”
"Interesting. Do you have any more of those scrolls?"
"One. I had to use two of the three he gave me to bring you here."
Chris nodded. "Then can you use one to bring my assistant here? His name is Douglas; he's an imp."
Cordula hesitated and then slowly nodded. "I can if he's asleep. But if not, there's nothing I can do."
"Of course. But try for me. I detest doing a case without him."
The succubus reached into empty space and pulled out a small roll of paper. It was silver-colored, fine and delicate. Unrolling it, she laid it out flat on one of the desks and held out a gold pen. "Write his name on the top line, and focus on him as you do so. It should be easier for you to bring him, as you know him, than it was for me to bring you."
Nodding, Chris accepted the pen and signed Douglas' name with a flourish to the indicated spot. As he finished, the scroll rolled itself up and vanished.
Several minutes later, a very confused imp stood beside the dream version of his desk, blinking between Chris and Cordula.
Chris explained.
"Interesting," Doug said with a yawn when he finished. He sat down at his desk and dug out a notebook and pen.
Sitting at his own desk, Chris motioned for the succubus to take the couch. "Now, Cordula. Start from the beginning and tell me everything. Leave nothing out."
"I first visited Tony a year ago, and started to feed like always. But--" she was starting to cry again. "He never got upset. Never seemed to mind. It threw me, how happy he seemed that I just visited. Half the time he didn't even seem affected by my skills e just liked talking. So we talked, and I fed just enough to be okay. And one day he said he loved me, and that he wanted me to be with him for real - even though I told him I wouldn't be pretty outside of his dreams." She pulled a handkerchief from the air and dabbed at her eyes and cheeks. "He said he didn't care. And then a couple of weeks ago I started having trouble getting to him. Yesterday I couldn't reach him at all. And I know he wouldn't start ignoring me, so I'm worried something else happened to him!" She buried her face in the handkerchief.
Chris and Doug looked at each in uncertainty. "What's his name?" Chris asked finally, figuring it was better to stick to business than try and comfort.
"Tommy Fitz." Cordula sniffed. "He lives on the south side of town, on Apple Street, right by the river."
"Apple Street." Chris grimaced. "Got a house number?"
"201B. The second floor of the Madison Building."
Chris nodded, while Doug's pen flew. "Any idea who or what might be threatening him? Perhaps another succubus?"
"No," Cordula said firmly. "We don't intrude on one another's territory. As for outside She shrugged. "He's just a lonely schoolteacher who dabbles in alchemy. Barely talks to the other teachers or the kids, because they all think he's strange. His neighbor, a black witch, is the only one he gets along with, and all they do is talk from time to time. Sometime she fixes him dinner, and he fixes her car when it needs it."
"Hmm Chris rubbed his chin. "He's done nothing unusual since all of this started? No new hobbies? No strange alchemical experiments?"
"Only the one he's using to take me outside. But he talks about that all the time. There's no danger involved for him until the end - and that wouldn't cut him off. It would leave him trapped here."
"Think hard," Chris said sharply. "There must be something strange that would help explain why you can no longer reach him. Are you certain he hasn't found a real life lover?"
Cordula glared. "He loves me. And besides, if he had someone like that, I would no longer be able to reach him at all."
"True. It's the loneliness that Succubi use to initially reach their victims. So it probably is an outside force." Chris fell silent as he thought. "Is there anything else you can think to tell us?"
"Nothing. I wish I could help more, but I've told you all I know."
Chris nodded and stood. "All right then. We'll investigate further once we wake up. Assuming all goes well, you'll know when we've succeeded."
"And what is your fee?" Cordula smoothed her dress. She looked up at Chris. "I will pay it, of course."
"Fees will be discussed when I've succeeded." Chris smiled. "I don't accept payment until I've solved the problem." He paused. "Any idea how to wake us up?"
Cordula laughed and spoke a word Chris didn't know - then the dream world faded out.
Prisoner: Chapter Two
Beraht woke slowly, wishing desperately to back to sleep and avoid the ache he could already feel in his head. Served him right, using that much magic at once.
Of course, if he hadn't he'd be dead but at the moment that really didn't seem like such a terrible idea.
Finally forcing his eyes open, Beraht immediately took in the unique cloak that covered him. Of heavy black wool, the bottom and top were heavily trimmed with gray wolf fur.
He threw it off and clambered to his feet - then regretted it. Mother Goddess he hated winter.
Food was cooking on a spit over a small campfire, a bucket of water nearby. Beraht glanced up, noting that the sun was going down. Great, he woke just in time for it to get colder.
If the cloak hadn't belong to the bastard General, he'd reassume it and go back to sleep.
Where was the bastard General anyway?
He was sorely tempted to run for it. But he had no food, inadequate gear thanks to stupid soldiers taking half his clothes and tearing the rest - Goddess he was cold - and he had no idea where he was. Except still in Kria.
Surely life couldn't get much worse.
The sound of something coming through the trees and bushes had him spinning around, tensed to put up whatever fight he could.
And there was his other reason for not running away. He wanted the bastard General to take his name away. Beraht eyed him warily as the General first moved to fetch his heavy cloak, then moved toward him.
Beraht looked up as he drew close.
And up.
Just how much Arcen had he been on? How exhausted had he been? To not notice the man was a good five inches or more taller than him? And built like he probably killed the wolf on his cloak with his bare hands? Before breakfast?
No wonder they'd told him to go after the Scarlet. How had it not turned into a suicidal mission?
Sheer dumb bad luck, that's how. Firs the Seven Star tattoo, then finding out the Seven Star didn't want him. Then told he had to kill 1000 people - at least - before they'd consider him. Then told it had to be the Scarlet.
And now General von Adolwulf was looking at him like he would quite cheerfully like to throw him in the fire.
The feeling was entirely mutual, and the size of a mountain or not the bastard General was going to know that.
"You're finally awake."
"You're so observant."
Beraht wondered how many soldiers in a day got glared at like that. He sobered, recalling suddenly that they no longer had to worry about the General's glares.
Which reminded him - why had the Illussor been after him?
Great. So his own people wanted him dead. The Krians wanted him dead. The Illussor wanted him…for something.
The next time death came up as an option he was going to take it.
He didn't bother to fight when von Adolwulf grabbed what was left of his shirt and hauled him close. Looking up was going to give him a crick in the neck eventually, but for now he'd manage.
"You'd do well to remember, Beraht, that you are my prisoner. And after what happened to my men, I will not be so kind as to kill you."
Beraht's anger flared anew at the sound of his new, hated name. Damn it, he'd been earning a real name from his Brothers. He would have belonged, would have had a place and a full Star. Instead he was now worse than Nameless and the star at his back would never go past yellow. "It's not my fault!"
"Winter's Tits it's not! Why!" von Adolwulf threw him to the ground. "Why? Why would the Illussor want a worthless Salharan?"
"When you figure it out let me know," Beraht snapped, picking himself up off the hard, cold ground.
"If I were you, Beraht, I would cease being flippant." The general's eyes were a strange mix of gray and green. Currently they were as hard as stone.
It really was no wonder everyone was terrified of the bastard. Beraht shoved away his own trepidation. Maybe if he angered him enough, von Adolwulf would lose his temper and beat him to death. Not a pleasant way to die, but he would take what he could get. "Sorry, flippant is the only way I know to be. If you don't like it, ignore me or kill me." This time when the General came after him, Beraht braced himself and attempted to fight back, dodging away from the hand that reached out to grasp him.
But fighting without magic was hard to do. Especially against a man who made wild bears look small. Just how far gone had he really been?
Beraht hit the ground with a pained grunt, the breath knocked out of his lungs, unable to see clearly for a second. But when his vision did clear, he saw all too well the anger and pain that filled the General's face.
"My men are dead. All of them. Not through battle defending their homeland or reclaiming lost ground. Not for a cause. But because the Illussor wanted you badly enough they Screamed. "
"That Scream could have killed us too, you know." But the heat had gone out of his voice, though he wanted it back. Every fiber in his body railed against the man pinning him down.
The Wolf of the Scarlet. His own men were terrified of him. Salharan soldiers dreaded hearing his name. None of them ever expected to live to see the day after a battle against him.
And now his gray-green eyes were the color of storm-tossed leaves, dark and bright, full of anger but also pain. If Beraht were a weaker man, he might almost feel sorry.
But no one had ever given him sympathy. He'd be damned if he gave it to a General who scared even his own men to death. "If I hadn't still had yellow Arcen in my boot, we'd both be dead. General. So maybe you're angry - though I think that's normal for you - but it's not my fault. I'm as ignorant as you."
With a rough, muttered curse the General released him and roughly hauled Beraht to his feet. "Keep your mouth shut," he said, brutally grabbing Beraht's chin and forcing him to look up. "Do as I say. Try to run and I will cut off your feet."
Beraht narrowed his eyes and dug his nails into the wrist that held him. "General, one day you'll grow sick of me. You'll try to rid yourself of me. But it won't happen. I'll not leave your side until you take away my name. I refuse to live quietly with the name you've shamed me with. So don't get your hopes up about cutting off my feet."
The General's grin was nothing less than wolfish when he let go of Beraht, not affected at all by the bloody marks left by Beraht's nails. "Do your worst. The more excuses I have to beat you, the better."
"You don't strike me as the type to need an excuse."
"Think what you like." He turned away, dismissing Beraht entirely to examine their dinner, which had singed slightly. "Come. Eat."
Beraht for a moment thought to refuse, but his stomach growled and he was forced to admit - to himself - that a war, even a private one, could not be waged on an empty stomach. Reluctantly he sat down and accepted what the General gave him, eyeing it warily before biting into meat that, though singed, was the best thing he'd had in months.
"You need clothes."
"Wouldn't you prefer to see me freeze to death slowly?"
"Not until I've paid you back for killing my men."
"The Illussor killed your men." Beraht glared. "I had nothing to do with it."
"You were the motive."
"Unwitting."
"Irrelevant."
"You're every bit the bastard I've always heard you to be."
The General sneered. "Hoping to regain ground with compliments?"
"There is nothing about you worthy of complimenting."
Not bothering to respond, the General rose to his feet and strode to a set of saddlebags hanging from a tree. Rifling through it, he pulled out a shirt and over tunic.
"Those are far too big for me."
"If you do not put them on, I will put them on for you."
Finishing his meat, Beraht through the stick to the ground and snatched at the clothes held out to him. "Would you like to search me for pollution before I change?"
"I already did," the General said smugly.
Biting off his curses, refusing to let the thrice-cursed Krian see how disconcerting that statement was to him, Beraht began to strip out of the scraps of his old clothes.
And that's all I've got.
Re: Just wondering....
Date: 2005-07-24 04:06 pm (UTC)Hells yes. I have that one to write, then finally an idea for 'the princess and the pea' and the fairytale I still ow Ki-chan. And a couple of rewrites. I always finish fairytales, they're my favorite ^_^