Call of the Harn

by JosephGeorge

  Chapter II

  . The Knowing .

  - Sixth Age, year 1014

  Black lay the hills around. Perhaps it was the lack of moisture. Perhaps the heavy-set clouds that hung low over the sky. The going down of the sun?

  A high density of shale permeating the plain’s soil?

  He supposed it could be all of those, but one thing stuck out to him more than the rest.

  Shadows had grown heavy in the land as of late.

  Everyone felt it.

  A lurch from the plow jolted the poor boy back into his farm work. The Toraq pulling the clunky piece of machinery let out a groan as two sharp discs clinked into a stone and refused to budge for a few moments. After a strenuous pull, though, they continued on.

  Five or six acres, and it wasn’t high noon yet. They were making good progress.

  Lyrus clicked to the beast, urging it to continue forward with the work. They were of a hardy type, caught from the Foothills to the north. This one had only been trained for a few weeks, but, seeming to be of a more docile nature, it had taken well to the pull and never gave much trouble.

  A bit different from the past two they had bought.

  This one had only three horns sprouting from the base of its skull and curling outwards. Probably a fight.

  But not one that it had picked.

  There was a call from down the hill. Lyrus pulled on the reigns, letting the dilapidated machine grind to a quick halt. He could see the figure of his father motioning for him to go down to the house.

  Unsure why, but not one to disobey a command, he set to unhooking the harness and locking the wheels of the plow. The beast was happy to be released from its burden and celebrated by shaking the dirt from its thick, blue hide, coating Lyrus with a layer of dust.

  “Now come on, you stupid animal.” He retorted, but with affection to his voice.

  It’s not as if it had done any wrong.

  “You have to think about others now, you see, otherwise you’ll end up like Frump and Kimp.”

  They’d gone off to another home, at least, that’s what mother had said, but he knew that she was only saying that to keep the other children from crying. He was old enough to know things like that.

  “What took you so long?” His father asked, a bit perturbed that he had been forced to stand there for some time. “I’ve been calling you for the better part of ten minutes.”

  Lyrus pulled the Toraq towards the barn, and answered, “Sorry, father, I was talking with our new friend here.”

  “Well, next time come a little faster. This is important.” His father seemed a bit frustrated, though he couldn’t tell why.

  “Yes father.”

  He quickly pushed the animal inside its pen, shutting and bolting the gate behind it. Before leaving he threw a handful of dried feed into its pen, smiled, and then went back to the main house.

  Everyone was seated around the table already. The younger children making a fuss, his mother attempting in vain to keep them quiet.

  Aldreaus, the oldest son, had a hard look on his face, and the next in line, their only daughter, sat quietly, with her head down, hair veiling her face.

  Lyrus thought he saw a tear fall into her lap.

  “What’s wrong mother?”

  She looked at him with her soft, green eyes, and curled her lips into a tight smile.

  “Oh, nothing is wrong, we only had some news for you.”

  Stooping to lift a little creature into his lap, he took a seat next to the youngest member of the family. The animal was some sort of four legged pet, a Fytleck, with feathery blue skin and two little beady eyes that looked up at the boy, probably seeking for food.

  A family pet. Not all that uncommon.

  “Yes, we thought that you should know, even if you’re too young to fully understand. Aldreaus and Maritha already know.”

  His father was a tall man, and broad in the shoulders. You could tell that he had worked a long time in the sun and the dry heat, the way his skin shone with a golden tinge. There were few wrinkles through his sun cured and muscular flesh.

  Lyrus knew that he wasn’t too young anymore. He had passed his twelve year, only a season before.

  He had received his first mark, right under the left eye. He wore it proudly, despite the fact that it was still a bit red and swollen at the edges. Soon, though, the others wouldn’t laugh when he showed them.

  His father looked to his wife, brows furrowing in thought.

  Smile and light broke from her features and she shamefully buried her face in her hands.

  “Keltrith was attacked, not two weeks ago, and raised to the ground.” He stated. “The King has declared open war again.”

  War? Again?

  He could not remember a time when they had been at war. Only in the books they read at school. For him it was only the first time.

  Lyrus looked at each member of his family, the tiny wheels in his head clicking like a well wound clock. War means we have to fight. Uncle Geoffric died at war. That means….

  Suddenly, he knew.

  He knew it all. Why his mother and sister were crying. Aldreaus, who normally had much to say about all things was sitting quietly in a stupor of thought. Why his father seemed so vulnerable and weak, even though he was renowned throughout the town as the strongest of men.

  Truth dawned on him before the words ever left his father’s lips, but it was no freeing light that came to warm his soul.

  Only a coldness left when that little piece of his heart fell out.

  . At The Edge of All We See .

  - Seventh Age, year 718

  “No, that would be a terrible idea. Think, you would not make it more than two steps before they cut you down.”

  “Yes, I know, I know. But do we have any other option?” Savill remarked in frustration.

  “We’ll think of something. Don’t worry.”

  “ Duraan?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m cold.”

  He didn’t answer for a long time. The way to comfort her was beyond him.

  “It hurts, Duraan. Hurts so much. I want to sleep.”

  “Yes, yes, you should sleep. You need it.” He reached out with all his might to send some connection of comfort to her, some small tendril to caress her aching soul. Something was there to feel, but it was faint, very faint.

  She seemed to be somewhere between consciousness and a delirious state. There was not much care, only a desire to escape this pain that she spoke of.

  But it worried him.

  Pain, that wasn’t physical or mental.

  “Duraan, I can always do it.” She replied to him of a sudden.

  “Do what?”

  “You know, Rift. It wouldn’t be too difficult right-“

  “No, no, that is a terrible idea. Worse than the first that you had. Put it away from your mind.”

  There was a bit of annoyance at the edge of her thought now, nagging at him a bit.

  “Then what am I supposed to do? Sit here, and wait? For what?”

  “I don’t know, Savill, I don’t know!” His heart sank with hers. “But you are too weak, you would get pulled in too far.”

  And that was something that she couldn’t disagree with.

  Weak.

  It wasn’t what she wanted to be.

  . Color .

  - Seventh Age, year 718

  Lost, it was all lost.

  The fighting had moved on as the men drove the barbarians into the pitch dark of the night, cutting asunder those last few of the resisters and laying claim to the prize they sought.

  And he had claimed his, only now…he wanted to give it back.

  But my friend, you do not understand, life is not to give and take. Not for you, and certainly not for him.

  Death claims only those who’s time has come, and all his wishing couldn’t summon her to leave her forlorn lair below.

  He was on his own this time.

  Aviin struggled to rise as the wo
rld swam around him. So many colors. Deep tones of purple crowded his vision, stabbed by shards of red and orange. Blue streaks cut into the mess, contorting the images around him into an unrecognizable patch of nothingness.

  He felt lost.

  He wanted to disappear.

  Staggering away from the carnage and seeking solitude. There was no care as to where he should go, only that it had to be far away.

  The thought, now, of facing his father, was more than he could handle.

  At the edge of the camp, where the last few ragged tents had been erected, there was darkness to hide his shame. Here, no soul could see the pain that racked his body and tortured his mind. There was only the sound of his silent weeping.

  And the wind.

  Death stalked through the remnants of what was left. Not much more than over turned tents and torn bodies. Only one of them bore the emblem of the Emperor, clad in half plate mail forged in the furnaces of the Royal Barracks, his luck having run out.

  Having found a place to himself, Aviin buried his head between his legs, breathing deep and attempting to gain control of his body, but it didn’t want to release its grip of those terrible images. He watched as they played before him again and again, each time becoming more vivid, individual details standing out in stark contrast against the backdrop of his past. Etching into his future.

  But then another sound caught his ear and pulled him from the drowning of his emotions.

  It was faint.

  Like the call of an Eve Singer.

  Following to where, he couldn’t say. The world was utterly black, and growing cold with each passing moment, but there was something to be found.

  All at once he stumbled upon a stick, driven into the ground and tied with a rope.

  Someone was there.

  Aviin started back, afraid, but quickly realized that this person, whoever they were, was not moving.

  Dead?

  His heart began a deep, pounding rhythm, forcing the vile taste back to his throat. He coughed, quickly covering his mouth to mask the sound.

  But they still had not moved.

  Moving forward carefully, he tentatively reached out a hand, placing it on the figure’s shoulder, all the while expecting it to reanimate itself.

  But nothing.

  He bent closer to see through the blackness. There was a makeshift rail that had been tied between a driven post and a large, pointed rock. Another length of cord had been used to bind hand to rail, forcing them to kneel, or sit awkwardly on the ground.

  Long hair fell past its face, hiding any feature that might be recognizable to him. And it’s…her, arm was warm beneath his hand.

  She sat, legs pushed to one side, body slumped over the rail. There was no support for her relatively tall frame which hung painfully in ultimate discomfort.

  Aviin let out a long sigh as he realized that she was, in fact, still living, her chest compressing, then retaking that precious life giving force. But she was certainly not conscious of the world around her. Lacerations, partially closed and scabbed with darkened blood, showed in several places, attesting to the state of her body.

  Lying at death’s door.

  Why is she here, like this? He wondered to himself, running through possible scenarios. A member of the trade caravan that hadn’t escaped? No, they killed all the rest…. So where is she from? And why here?

  Answers came as his eyes adjusted to the black, revealing something very unexpected. Something that frightened him, but curled a taunting finger that drew him deeper.

  Something that I had known all along.

  But I don’t need eyes to see in the dark. These are some things that you will learn very quickly.

  I had known her for such a long time, always there, at the edge of the plain of my thoughts. A silent memory that never spoke much, but it’s words like shards of crystal; beautiful, and tearing.

  Red.

  So piercing and crude.

  Yet, it was not the color of the blood he had so freely spilled that night. Only the rush of spring’s touch as it caressed the wide fields of the Quiet Hills, painting the grass a deep vermillion, but not so stark as to seem overpowering.

  But it was still red.

  Appalled at what he saw, Aviin nearly drew away and fled, but there was that intrigue, still playing at the strings of his decision turning mind. Thoughts of disbelief clouded his mind as he drew upon his past, filtering through all of those events, and questioning if they were true?

  He had never told anyone of the dreams, not his father nor any of those that he trusted. They would have thought him a fanatic and turned him out to become a ward of the empire. No, it was his own safety that had stayed his hand, for those many years.

  And now?

  With shaking hands he reached out, grasping a few thin strands and rolling them between his fingers. They felt the same, and yet….

  He could not pull away.

  . To Slay A Man .

  - Seventh Age, year 718

  “Grant to me vision, my deity.”

  Smoke, burned from sticks of incense, had filled the small sanctuary to the point of blocking almost all visibility. But one would not be able to tell if the thick mist was simply impenetrable, or if mild herbs were fogging the senses. Perhaps a bit of both?

  “And lead me in the paths of light and truth.”

  Either way, Aviin knew where he would find General Feilden. He was always to be found in the same spot, sitting before the shrine of Kholiris.

  Majestic in form and power, she gripped her maned javelin in delicate fingers, the weapon of her choice, looking to be broken. Those piercing eyes, though, staring down from her perfect feature, silenced any thought to touch or harm.

  Goddess of the field of war, and of tradition, she had never lost a game of Stones, not even to her companion brother who stood in the adjacent alcove. It was to her that Feilden prayed, and from her, he believed, had come all his victories. But now?

  Now, he sought counsel in a very different matter. This is why he had sent for his son.

  “Don’t stand and say nothing.” Feilden uttered abruptly, catching Aviin off guard. He had meant to observe his father for a few moments more, but this veteran of a soldier had ears trained better than the younger man’s feet.

  “You asked for me?”

  “Yes,” Feilden’s shoulders rose a bit, but he did not turn to face his son. “I thought you might like to do your devotions, alongside me?”

  The request brought foul thoughts to Aviin’s lips. His father knew how he felt about that, and yet, he asked on a rather consistent basis. But it wasn’t worth stating again. Remus, emperor of Asix, might force them to claim Lydria and Brey as their token gods, but he could never put an iron trap over their hearts and force them to believe in such nonsense.

  All the soldiers knew that this barrier between father and son existed. Some even went to such low lengths as to have some fun by edging it on.

  Feilden would have none of it, though.

  And guess who became the scapegoat for all of his anger and frustration?

  “Is there something important that you wish to discuss?” Aviin asked, definitively, something which his father took in personal offense.

  Great, here he goes again. The closed eyes, silent composition and forced exhalation of the breath. He would remain this way, until some brilliant way of further destroying his son’s confidence and position was revealed.

  From the gods, of course.

  As if sensing the level of contempt rising, Feilden suddenly turned, rising to his feet and fixing his son with a blaring stare, his jaw working in and out.

  He rhetorically framed a question, tossing it to Aviin in anger, “And what would you have me say?”

  What could he say? The situation was well understood. Perhaps it was Aviin’s younger age, or his penetrable heart that yearned for something more than the cold embrace of a soldiering parent, but he desperately sought a charitable extension of grace.

>   Silence was his reward.

  This time, he could not let his father win, so he forfeited the battle, and spoke, “And how would you have me answer? The whole camp knows now, and I’ll live with it for the rest of my life.”

  “And what will I do with it?”

  A third question, for a three pronged spear to puncture his final gleam of trust.

  His emotions almost overcame him. Fighting back the hot break of tears and gripping the flood in his chest, he bit down and clenched his fists and released but a part of his building rage, “I did it for you, father, and nothing else! Why do you not except it for what it is?”

  There was a short pause, the flames dancing in Feilden’s eyes.

  “I asked Kholiris for a son,” he eventually said, “that could grow tall and strong like his father, and regain the honor that was lost, for his family.”

  The final line bit hard and deep, poisoning Aviin’s bitter soul.

  “And she gave me a child.”

  Speechless, the so called “child” stood, broken again, bleeding out his heart on that stoned floor and letting it seep to the feet of the marble goddess. She drank it up like water from a spring, that twisted smile there all the time.

  “And one that shrinks at responsibility and duty.”

  “What?” Aviin bit hard. “Is this about what happened out there? I killed him, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, that you did. But I look into your eyes, and they tell me much, too much.”

  “And what do they say?”

  Feilden’s jaw worked in and out, contemplating his words carefully. Finally, he gave his answer, “That you will never kill again, because you are a coward in the face of death. You shrink at the honor of claiming victory.”

  “A coward? It isn’t death that scares me, it’s taking life from another. I learned to value it, father. It means something.”

  “And are you to tell me that those…beasts have what you call life?”

  He rolled his eyes and shook his head in frustration at his father’s impudent and stubborn character. “They are still Adonai, just the same. You know that.”

  “No!” He cried back. “They chose their lot when they attacked that caravan. But it is not for you to say. You are to obey the commands of your ranking officer, and nothing else. If your ability to do so has decreased, then perhaps you are no longer fit for duty.”

  This thought had been on his mind, but only now did it crush down with full weight of pressure, and he realized, not for the first time, that his heart had never been to claim that prize of a life.

  Only to please his father.

  “And if so? What then?”

  But Feilden’s answer did not come. Something was roiling inside of him, building into a heavy force and pressing at the edges of his lips. Something that ate at him.

  The next sentence caught Aviin entirely off guard. He was unprepared for such a thing.

  “Dishonor, you dishonor me.”

  Such venom and spite.

  “You dishonor your family name! You dishonor your country and your kin! You bring shame to the household of Vrein….”

  All of it clenched through his teeth.

  His eyes fell, head nodding in response. The only response he could give. And the last strand of what they had remaining, to bind them, was cut with a butcher’s knife and laid for all the world to view.

  Reader, do you like what you see? Because I do.

  . an excerpt from the book of draal: Chapter XLVI .

  And so it is that the commander of the Fallen armies has been slain in battle. His head was raised on a spear and placed at the entrance to the city of Ellebore. All who traveled through its gates were to see the consequences of rebellion against the high crown.

  And the uprising has been put to death for a short season. For nearly a year the kingdom was free of its corruption and all the insurrectionists were hunted down and put to shame for their actions.

  Peace has been reestablished in the land, and unity between the clans restored. A council of the high Lords was held to discuss rebuilding the kingdoms governmental systems. Lord Karx wished to end, for the last time, the possibility that the Old Religion could resurface and become a threat to them again. As a consequence of their council, a new law will be established that mandates each family place a statuette, of their choice, of one of the seven gods at the entrance to their home.

  The going down of the sun each day will also be celebrated with a public time of devotion, where each subject was to pray to their god.

  In this manner, they hope to build a firmer web of unity, and to bring about the true strength of the kingdom in all its glory and splendor, as had existed in past days under the rule of the High Kings.

  . Po .

  - Seventh Age, year 718

  “Momma?”

  Patters of heaven sent moisture dripped steadily from the edge of the roof, pooling at the corner of their small home. The woman watched with grateful eyes as the rain quenched the earth’s great need.

  It had been a long time.

  “Yes dear, what is it?”

  Her child pressed against her leg, looking up with those deep blue eyes that reminded her so much of the sea. “When will Po come home?” He asked, real desire to hear the answer showing on his little features.

  It was a question she’d asked many times, perhaps too many as it was a constant worry of hers. And so, she gave the reply that had always been there, the one that set things at rest and let them be, “Oh, soon, my love, very soon. She usually comes back in the fall.”

  The boy’s young mind, now satisfied with the given answer, brightened a little and he hugged into her leg, pressing his face against the twilled skirt.

  “That’s good, I want to see her again.”

  And so did they all.

  She sighed, but not too hard, not enough to worry her son, but enough to release her feelings.

  There were those mountains, stretching from horizon to horizon, a protection from the dangers of the south. Jagged crests piercing into the clouds, topped with a dusting of white powder. Aptly termed Eira’s Crown, they called to her, invited with a taunting finger.

  Two would return to cross through the pass and make their way back home. Two were missing every night at the fire, but at least she knew where one of them was. The thought gave her little comfort, though. Drog hunting was certainly no layman’s vocation, and though she trusted that her husband would be safe from harm’s way, there were always those few.

  Brought back on a cart, with a flower in hand and a mark of the slain drawn in black paint over their eyelids.

  But she was determined that this would not happen to her own.

  “Come Jaerus, let’s make some bread.”

  Delighted at the prospect, the boy skipped off into the kitchen in search of ingredients and began arraying them on the counter. This was his favorite part of the day.

  She let one last breath out, then shut the door.

  . Blood is a Beautiful Thing When Dry .

  - Seventh Age, year 718

  Raucous, they all stood, clambering over one another to get the best view. This was something they had not seen in such a long time, and like ravenous beasts on their first kill, they watched on, hungry for more.

  Standing’s Point was the farthest edge of the conquerable world. Even Drath-Eis, balanced up in the great hills of the north, was still closer to home.

  These men were starved of all things, including food and drink. Separated from home and kin, from all that they knew to be their own, and drug into a world of the desert’s solitude.

  But someone had to do it.

  Feilden sat, one arm perched on the chair’s rest, features gripped into that unbreakable strain of his.

  Who knows what thoughts permeated into his mind at that moment? Surely not pleasant ones as he considered what to do with their newfound problem.

  The subject of their attention was collapsed on the floor, quietly sobbing in short bursts of brea
th. He almost broke, to see such a pitiful and worn character, having endured so much, only to arrive into this predicament. And a woman, of all things.

  But it was not this point that stirred so much energy into the thin hall.

  How do I get into these things? Feilden bemoaned himself and his fate. I didn’t exactly sign up for this.

  She had been brought back with the caravan, her wounds bound and her health nursed back. The whole time the plan had been to get her on her feet, and then send her away, very far away. And then, there was the talking to no one at all, but to something not present….

  The strange way that she stared into the wall, moving hands, as if to enhance her conversations with the empty air.

  And then there was the other issue.

  Two nights before a guard left his post while on duty, ranting of some freakish appearance, a spirit come to slay them all, that had walked in from the desert side.

  He didn’t believe in ghosts, just as any smart man wouldn’t. But then…. He said it was the boy, Matthias.

  The specter of his dreams.

  Come back to haunt them from his dry grave and to take his revenge for their not recovering his lost body. Soon, he was everywhere, in every hall, in every dorm, always there to watch and plot his nefarious wishes. Nightmares conjured up by ignorant minds, no doubt.

  But it still had him worried.

  And now this.

  Had it been any other person in this same situation, she surely would have been returned to her home by an escort, kept safe and unharmed. There would be no question.

  But the hair.

  That was something that they simply could not ignore. They had checked to see if it was a dye, but no.

  Feilden’s confidence to handle the situation was waning fast, dying like the sun that dropped for the horizon’s edge, and for a night of rest, all the while stealing his away. Ideas ran across his mind, but each one was to be turned down. Ultimately, there was only one choice. The deep pondering was only a ruse to avoid the inevitable, and it pained him, it did every time.

  “Daughter of Eoiyn, by order of Emperor Remus, lord of Axis, you have been summoned before this council to be questioned.” He said, rambling off the preliminary remarks that so embodied their current political station. There was something about telling the truth and of hiding nothing from the crown, but the whole time she laid there in the same position, not caring for the world that there was someone speaking to her.

  Losing his patience, the general motioned to several soldiers. “Stand her up.”

  They moved quickly to pull her to her feet. She pulled her arms away, pushing one of them back, and he was happy to go. The two men shrank back, as if frightened.

  “You are required to answer all questions that the Emperor, or those he anoints as his spokesmen, may demand. Do you understand this?”

  Their eyes met, fire and ice clashing in a fury of torpid war, but in the end she couldn’t fight this war forever, and she knew that.

  Nothing would stop her from throwing as much venom into those so-called answers, though.

  “If that’s what your gracious monarch wishes, then so be it.”

  Contempt.

  Something he hated with a passion.

  “You are now a ward of the state, do you know what that means?” But she gave no answer to this, perhaps not wanting to admit that she did not understand. “It means,” he continued, rising to his feet to stand above her, “that you are at the mercy of the law, and nothing else. If deemed necessary, action will be taken to protect the people of Axis and its borders. If you are found to be of no threat, you will be released.”

  He stepped down two stairs to stand directly before her, the two of them locking eyes for a moment. He could see the determination in her face, the resolve to not lose this fight.

  “But if deemed necessary, you will be kept captive, until determined that you are to be of no harm.” And almost as an afterthought, he turned his head slightly to look straight into the recesses of her left eye, feeling for something, and added, “Does that frighten you?”

  A moment of silence, even from the crowd of obnoxious men.

  “Yes.” Came the answer. So honest, and so bold.

  Her demeanor matched the color of her hair. So very fitting.

  “Good, then we should get along.”

  Feilden was in search of only a few things, mostly for his own sanity, but he knew that in the end they would need to send a rider to inform the Emperor of the situation. It had happened before, but not quite in this way. There was nothing else to consider, but he did not wish to be so rash as to mistreat this poor soul.

  “I only ask that you answer a few, simple questions, the first being where you have come from?”

  Willing to comply under the current circumstances, she answered quickly and without adornment, “Canton, of Felltown.”

  “A long way away from home. And how did you come to the desert?”

  “I was captured.” She said, squinting a bit.

  Feilden chuckled lightly. “Yes, that much was obvious, but how did you come to be in the White Wastes at all? What brought you here?”

  “I travel far, to get away from….”

  “From what?” He pushed, trying to force her to keep up.

  “From men like you.”

  More truth had never been spoken, and Feilden understood that very well. It made complete sense. Others had done the same, hiding themselves from Remus’ reach, sometimes for generations.

  But he would always find them.

  Everyone knew the laws and customs well, and it had been that way since the beginning, long before the current Emperor ever came to be in power, trailing itself back to the days of the High Kings.

  Of course she was running from them. Who wouldn’t?

  He shook his head in aggravation that it had to be him. First the boy, then his son, and now this. Running tired hands through his greying hair, Feilden rued the day and wished it could all just be over.

  But she was still there, and so were the rest of his men, stirred up by the recent happenings.

  Witch.

  That’s what they had called her.

  A bit superstitious, but so the legend went. Their kind had been eradicated long before, though traces still floated up from the depths, resurfacing from time to time.

  “You know the law, and what it means.” There was no doubt of that.

  But her next move surprised him, because she was so intensely serious. It was not a question or a plead.

  “Let me go free.” She said.

  A statement, of what should be. Something about her changed, that fire in her eyes leaping up in renewed strength, then of a sudden sputtering out to be replaced by a thick darkness.

  But not fear.

  To be free? How he longed for that warm embrace. But it was only a child’s dream. No, he had gambled on the boy, and lost his wager. Aviin had risen to the occasion, only to fall farther into the abyss of his own shame.

  This time, though, there would be no mistake, no matter the consequences that would be rendered of his conscience.

  I, am brathak tain.

  . Dusk Will Dawn .

  Golden streams of twined silk fell from past her shoulders.

  The same color as his.

  Aviin’s thoughts reached for this vision, wanting to hold on longer. Some nights he lay awake, thinking only of her and trying, desperately, to grip on to the few memories that still existed of her presence. She was so far away, and, rusting through with the years, her countenance grim dimmer in his mind’s eye.

  Truth be known, this was the true rift that had cleft father from son. It was the one thing that had kept them at such an indifference, both refusing to move from their defenses. But something about it still troubled Aviin.

  He never knew why.

  Why had his father done such a thing? The courage to confront him, face to face, had never been born. He knew what the general would say, and so, to him, there was
no point in going that far.

  She must have been so beautiful, his mother. Did they share the same green eyes? So many questions left unanswered.

  A bitterness, tight and pervading, crept into his heart and clouded out all other senses, rising and ebbing like the flow of a great ocean of anger and hatred for this man’s actions of the past. It did not matter to him, the stories that he was told of his mother’s choices, there was simply no room to refute the fact that his father was at great fault in his mind. And though time and earth would pass away, it could never change from its driven direction.

  He found himself at the edge of the bed, hot tears streaming down his cheeks and staining the cool stone tiles.

  Mortal, as you all are. Betrayed by your emotions and left to slay your own soul, using your own sword of self-pity.

  This, I never understood.

  And so here, we find him, a shattered man at the beck and call of his internal struggle, tossed about on the waves of uncertainty, with this deep hatred for one man, and one man only, rising.

  . But Blood Stains Red .

  - Seventh Age, year 718

  “And what reason,” Feilden prompted, “do I have for doing such a thing?”

  Quickly came her answer, but not with so much force, as if…unsure, “Because if not, then you will regret your decision.”

  Fortunately for her, though, this was truth in every sense of the word, and it punctured Feilden’s soul with a poisonous fang, leaking into his blood and buzzing through his system. Regret, it was his greatest weakness, and it showed.

  “Do you understand what the consequences would be, if I were to release you?” He asked, but it was rhetorical, talking to himself, only an attempt at providing a way out. “You would be a fugitive, wanted by the Emperor and his company. I would be in open opposition to the crown, and at fault of treason and mutiny.”

  He stepped just a little closer to her. She could smell his breath, stale and with a tinge of alcohol at the edges.

  “They would have both of our heads for it. And that is simply som-“

  “Let her go!”

  This voice interjected and cut into the raw silence that had built in the room as the soldiers watched, a voice that Feilden recognized well. And from the crowd emerged a figure, tall and thin, with sandy blonde hair and green eyes and a face just like his father’s.

  There were some whisperings amongst the men, most surprised to see such opposition to their commander in charge, but not entirely shocked that it had come from this one. He had on a fresh set of clothing, as if going to some important event. Face recently washed and still a bit red at the edges.

  Dark circles showed under his eyes, adding age to that youthful form.

  “What did you say to me?”

  “I said, let her go, father.”

  Feilden’s reaction was to exhale one, short laugh, confused and perhaps a bit more shocked than the rest at this soldier’s conduct. Who was he to stand in the face of the law?

  “I thought I ordered you to remain at your post, soldier?” He stabbed, contemptuously.

  Yes, his trick of assigning Aviin guard duty was certainly a good way to keep him from the trial, but then, he had not included the fact that nothing would keep him from coming anyways.

  He had talked to her.

  Only briefly, of course, and she never said much, whether in dream or in person didn’t seem to matter much, but he gathered that she was of the northern people, and a long way away from her home. She had come to the southern wastes simply because it provided protection, and distance from those that might cause her harm.

  Her plan…it had worked out very well indeed.

  The sound of battle attracted her, she recognized them as simple merchants, and went to aid them in their struggle against the barbarians.

  She hadn’t said how, but eventually she was captured by them, and drug into the wilderness. The others were left to die in the desert sands, their bones to be picked clean by scavenging animals.

  Her own survival rested entirely on one thing….

  Her hair.

  And now, it was trying to get her killed, and not for the first time.

  “Did you honestly think that it would stop me? No, someone had to speak for her, because I knew that you wouldn’t.”

  Here, he had misjudged his father, and it drove Feilden mad with rage, but he kept it at bay, at least for a short while.

  “This is not for you to say. She is in my custody, and I will not take orders from anyone, especially not you.”

  Several had made comments to him of Aviin’s strange conduct ever since they had taken the girl captive. How he talked to her, and how he seemed to constantly be thinking of her, standing at the compound’s edge and watching her with curious eyes.

  Some said that she had him under a spell.

  “Get back to your post, soldier.”

  “If you give her up, they’ll only kill her! You know that.” Aviin retorted, seeking for more ground to dig into.

  “You are out of line!”

  “And you are going to send her to her death!”

  Finally the general’s patience had worn thin and he motioned for those standing as guards to take action. “Take them!” He cried aloud. “And throw both into a cell. I want them out of my sight!”

  “Fine, kill her, why don’t you!” Aviin cried, furious and enraged. “Why don’t you just do it yourself? You’re good at that!”

  Feilden paid him no mind.

  But then the borders of their relationship were pierced through with a rending blade, one last, final thrust to sever that thread of what remained. A final sentence, and a final attempt to beat his own father at his own game.

  Uncalled for and unprecedented was his advance, and though nothing showed, it was apparent to all the world that Aviin, at last, had won.

  “Kill her,” he spit venomously, “just like you did my mother.”

  There was a scuffle of movement as the men seized both Aviin and the girl by the arms, dragging them forward and forcing their arms behind the back for tying. Aviin struggled to break their grip, but two against one was something he couldn’t handle. She, though, exploded in a fury of action, ripping one hand out and shoving the man back.

  Gasps circled around, and someone yelled out.

  “Watch out! The hag is using magic!”

  Absurd! Feilden wondered. There’s no such thing.

  And there wasn’t, at least, not since the mages schools had gone into disarray and burned themselves to the ground.

  But then there was this strange energy that seemed to float around the edges of her crimson locks, dancing about as she fought with the guards. That same wisp of flame sprouting brightly against the backdrop of her darkened pupils.

  They forced her hands together and one quickly wrapped them as she kicked at the other.

  There was the sound of rushing wind, as if some great storm had suddenly risen out of the air. A dark and ominous presence seemed to feel the room.

  “Don’t let her go!” Was Feilden’s final remark before the world around them exploded. Great lights flashed before their eyes, throwing them back, the girl yelling all the while, her form glowing with an intense heat, flickering in and out of visibility.

  Eyes gone black.