Hearthsoul Chronicles: El'shadie Prophesies

Ivory shouts for him, but it is too late to retreat. Yet, Kabel turns to her, eyes wide, and runs. Swiftly, he shrouds her body with his. He smells like wet flowers. Not the usual kind, different. Better. Genuine. And then there is an explosion. And the wind knocks hard. It is instant, and she is thrown, but Kabel holds tightly. There is fierceness in his grip, as though any lesser and he loses something dear to him. Someone dear to him.

It is unnervingly genuine.

And together they smash into the earth, her above him, deliberately cushioned. There is a brief silence as she rears her head, his locked grip faltering. 

Kabel?

What she sees is a pale face—not the smug one of hidden intellect, no, this was pallid. Blood seeping from the sharp nostrils. And those poised eyes are wide, something confused in them. He is dead. How? How was that possible? Ivory tries to stand, trips, hand slapping against the earth. Into something warm, thick.

She looks, raises her palm, four-fingered, blood smeared over it. Why? Kabel is pooling redness, from his back, blood ponds around him. The attack. Sharpnel had been hidden within it!

She cups his face, confused. He wasn't meant to die now. No, his head was to be cut for treason, not this. A worthless death. Blood from palm, smudges the sallow face. He doesn't wake. Why? Was it always this easy? Death. She joked about it, surely, but…that was her right. Not his. He was to die when she desired it. Liar! Ivory's fist curls, a blow into dead flesh. She was deceived. She was lied to. And worse, she believed it, accepted the vulnerability as it tasted new, different.

She gives a final blow, but he doesn't move. He should. That or he becomes a liar in her awareness. He shouldn't strive for that. Never that. Wake up! She screams the words, "WAKE UP!" Even as gentle steps pad atop the ground. "WAKE UP!" Even as a clicking of metal draws into her ears. "WAKE UP!"

Her enemy is known now: Fermen. Ashman of the soot fields, some called them. Similar to the counterpart. And now, she stands with one. She is attacked by one. Lost to one. And it comes to reap her of her life.

Ivory surges with madness—rage and dips fingers into her bosom, producing the sleek dark Emerlt. It shines to her, salvation fitted into one hand. Time tapers, and she drapes it on. Fingers stretched within, four-fingered. But it matters not as the internal tide roars in accordance. It is fueled by rage—a need for retribution.

Something was taken. Something is required!

She looks at the sleeping Kabel. Sleeping, yes, and turns. For a moment, her rage wavers. Corpses are around her. Men, women, the mist swirling around their forms, skin sizzling against the heat. She stands alone, a bright orb floating beside her. It was Kabel's. Yet it still functions. Good.

For now, she takes a breath. "Come out." She says, stoking the tide force within. "I am Ivory of Valor. You are a fermen. Even you inerudite men should know the highHeir of the Great Clan. Which means you are an assassin. Surrender yourself and you won't have to face your skin flayed."

She says those words, but wishes for their disobedience. No logic in that desire, yes, but logic is not what drives her now. It is rage. Mad fervor. Something is lost. Something is required. She feels like a darkCrown. Controlled by the little emotion. Like a beast that eats its own legs to survive.

A corpse jerks, and Ivory calls down fire. A moment, and it bursts into flames, crackling in that red fierceness. This is easy to do. Against the weakness, it is achieved with knowledge. With Emerlt, one cannot see the symbols, but she has learned. She has studied and knows the envisioned mind plays the high role in its usage. This she did. Behind her are blooms of exploded fire—from that, only a thought is required: Fire into corpse.

And it burns. So fiercely it burns.

Then another jerks, bursts into flames. Another does. Another, and Another. They seem countless, and Ivory steps back in mild fear. There are so many. Countless killers who aim for her life. Another step, and she steps on Kabel. Him, there, silent. She burns the rage, screams.

A corpse moves, a hand tears from it, bloodied. No hesitation, Ivory feeds the Emerlt: Fire on corpse. Suddenly, something flies towards her, small. A runty bug, wings flapping into invisibility. She is confused. And it explodes.

Ivory is thrown back, rolling against the earth, gasping. She is weak, tries to stand, but falls onto the ground. Weakened. This causes a mental revelation: Force depletion. Whatever that bug was, her force had left her. She cries within, the world blurring into a mass of burning red, shadow, and light.

She is hateful. A highness stands above all, yet she is below. What then was the point of the rage? A vapid outcome brought from beastly desires. She has failed. Mother would see it and wail. She would know Valor a thing of no future….Ah, Saedon would be made Highness. In a week, everyone will die. A great clan no more.

Ivory feels an insight—Kabel's words echo back into her. It is sweet in thought...Mesmerizing.

He didn't know, but he had shown her the people. The philosophy of rule. She understands it. A forced knowing, perhaps, but indeed, a ruler is needed, not someone like Saedon. Never him.

Mother is right, father is right, Kabel was right. Control must be taken, not asked. Taken!

God is like a Highness; he, too, stands above all. He, too, controls, unimpeached. So what if she was not a caster? Why does that have to stop her from Highness….She recalls a question: Can a darkCrown become a Highness?

Yes…But, lords, may they never find out.

Slowly, she hears the thumping of careful steps; the fermen. He comes, solely, alone. Good. She had killed more, this means. Now, she must kill this one. How though? She is weak, without force, without thought. How is she to fall a fermen?

This is like rubber; it snaps a thought. And Ivory falls into her internal awareness. She retains a question: Knowledge for power? It feels like a betrayal. But Kabel had given his life for hers—she owes him a treason. This is it.

YES! She screams in her thoughts. YES! POWER FOR KNOWLEDGE. POWER FOR KNOWLEDGE. ALL KNOWLEDGE. EVEN THE ORAL HISTORY!

------

Merrin feels the earth against his feet, cold. Impossibly cold. Wondersome. Such that he considers if froststones have ever been so cool. Perhaps those of the brightCrowns. But never darkCrowns. Never the smaller people.

I should change that.

He plays with a stone between his fingers, fiddling. It bears a mind-enforced calming effect. Good. Merrin sought that now, for what is to happen, the mind desired the absolute solace. That and a hope to desist. Repulsive. The body mocks his attempt at relaxation, nudging the earth, back-stretching. How strange he would look to them…Their savior, casual. Yet it serves a double purpose.

The known and the revelation of humanity. Odd, yes, a thing that feeds the internal ego. His ego. But the truth remains. This ones must see him as high flesh—a high-born thing. Superior but human. Maybe not fully man, but alas, a god in mortal flesh. As was prophesied by the church. That and the other; was he also to make them believe he was a brightCrown? He knew the answer. Not any though, but one from the 8 great clans. That would solidify the myth.

No. He thinks. This lie is unnecessary

This he knows to be the truth. Today, something final will bloom in the hearts of his people. What horror it would become…A dreadful future. Then, his clothes hang to the side.

He turns, beholds a short woman. She is a witness, caps a rag, and wears a thin layer of cloth around her bosom. They serve nothing, exposing the whole. Not that it mattered to her, he saw it, fearful reverence in her eyes. Maybe not fear, but something surely. The light of awareness was gone from it—leaving only a dim stain of accepted stimuli.

She rasps, "I think I should give myself as food."

"What?" Merrin is startled—her words, whatever could they mean? She, however, offers a simple smile, as though her act was some reward. "Explain this."

She smiles again. "Well, everyone is hungry. I think they should eat, right?" She shies her gaze away. "I think you should get the first bite." Her arm is raised. "Don't worry, I won't scream."

Merrin marshals everything—he must not weep. "No." He makes the words loud like thunder, wind-carried. This trawls their attention, all eyes on him. They would wonder now: What is happening? Is god angry….

When did that even become the norm?

Since when was he acknowledged as a god?

There had to be a moment, Merrin tries to recall, moving to the edge of the current step—all are below him, eyes up, expectant, fearful, reverent. And the other: He sees it: They fear his rage not for the punishment or power, no, what they fear is his desertion.