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books-of-the-great-leviathan · 2 years

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Chapter 8- Isabella

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"Are you insane?" Isabella said. "You're telling me you believe him?"

She faced her brother down the length of their mother's office, her voice ringing off the white-stone walls. Luca stared back, resolute and rumpled. His hair was plastered to his cheeks. The smell of seawater hung about him. He'd made his own small lagoon on the antique Ishvoli carpet under his boots.

Behind him, the queen and Cereza stood alongside Prince Alois and a pair of his guards. Their ceremonial helmets were off, and they looked scarcely older than their charge, with the same dark skin and darker curls. Alois had insisted on his presence when he learned Cereza was involved.

Involved. A diplomatic word for Luca dragging her onto his deathtrap of a ship and catapulting them both out into the bay.

"Of course I believe him," Luca said.

Fire boiled in Isabella's guts. "How could you be so stupid," she snarled between her teeth.

"I know," Luca said. "And I'm sorry. But I heard what the boy said."

"You could have gotten Cereza killed. Yourself, too. You put our nation's peace in jeopardy. And for what, Luca? For some mad stab at rebellion?"

"That doesn't matter anymore," Luca insisted. "The Great-"

Isabella whirled, slamming her palms hard into the gleaming surface of the queen's desk, a slab of ironwood and brass flanked by a pair of carved lynxes. The impact rattled the set of gilt pens on the desk, shook the arc of tall windows: the office's prow, outthrust from the face of the Palace like a hawk's keelbone. From here the entire city was visible, whitebrick and shadow and streetlight, a web of moonslit canals down the sheer fall of the ridge.

Isabella made herself stare at it, made herself breathe. She couldn't look at Luca without wanting to put her hands around his bloody neck.

"Isabella," her mother said. "Enough."

"How can you defend him?" She turned back. Her mother's gaze was level and cool. Isabella fought to control her voice. "He risked-"

"I am aware," her mother said, "of what Luca has risked. I have no doubt this night could have ended far less favorably."

"What does the boy have to say?"

Isabella and the queen turned as Prince Alois stepped forward. His guards moved with him like a pair of shadows. Isabella brushed her fingertips against the hilt of her sword. It was a gift from her father, given to her when at fifteen she'd completed with honors the Royal Soldiers' Academy, finishing top in her class. She'd never felt such pride- silver hawk pinned to her bandoleer, uniform pressed knife-sharp, her father proffering the sleek enameled sheath. This was a weapon she'd earned. If there was to be a fight, she was ready for it.

She lifted her chin as Alois stopped before them.

"I want to hear his account," Alois went on. "Maybe then we can..." He glanced at the queen, at Isabella, at Luca, who'd slung a towel around his neck and begun to scrub dry his hair. "Come to an understanding," he finished, diplomatically.

"I agree," Luca said.

"Thank you," Alois said, almost smiling.

Isabella looked to the boy. He sat by the hearth, firelight gilding his sharp-boned face. He was huddled in a blanket as a maid fed him spoonfuls of hot broth. He ate obediently, like some silversmith's automaton, staring into the flames, fingers clutching at the blanket. He'd said nothing since Luca and Cereza had brought him to the Palace.

"Very well," Isabella said.

"It's at my word, Isabella," the queen said. She nodded to Alois and Luca. "Go on."

Alois hung back, but Luca went to the boy- Elias- and knelt, taking both of his hands. "Tell them," he said. His voice was gentle. "Tell them what you told me."

"Why were you marooned?" Isabella asked. "A storm?"

Elias blinked. His lips fluttered.

"It's all right," Luca urged. "Go on."

"Not a storm," Elias whispered. The fire popped, illuminating the boy's face with orange and gold. He shuddered and looked away. "They had cannons. So much smoke. They came out of nowhere, out of the Great Blue. We were ranging the edge, and I didn't see...they were on us before I knew what was happening. I fell...I saw the Tern on its side in the water. Smoke from the holes in its hull. I dunno if everyone's dead. I think they are."

"Pirates," the queen murmured.

"That was all you saw," Isabella said. "You mistook them for a whale, didn't you?"

Elias turned his head. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated, dark as deepwater. A chill traced Isabella's spine despite the warmth of the fire, despite the staunch, rational voice inside her head telling her the boy was mad, he'd been addled by fear and dehydration, that he hadn't known what he'd seen, not really.

"No," he said. "It was there. It was real. There was a wind, and a light. An aurora on the horizon. It swept across the sea. More than the sea. It was in the ship, it was in the air. It was in me. I felt its song like it had always been a part of me. That's the reason I survived. The Great Leviathan kept me alive. I should have died out there but I didn't because I knew I had to come back. I knew I had to tell you."

"A god needs a prophet," Luca murmured.

Enough of gods and prophets and pagan mutterings. "The Leviathan hasn't been seen for two centuries. It has no reason to return now."

"You don't know that," Alois said.

Isabella rounded on him. He stiffened.

"Not a word of this leaves the room," she said, to him, to his guards, to Luca and Cereza, to the maids in the corners, hands folded down their aprons. "Do you understand?"

"Cereza," her mother said at once. "Go back to your chambers. You've had enough for tonight, and you need your rest."

"Mother," Cereza started, but fell silent at the look the queen gave her. She cast a glance toward Luca, then turned and hurried from the room, Falcii on her heels.

The door boomed shut. Silence flooded in.

"If the Leviathan is back-" Alois began.

"The war is what is important," Isabella said. "The peace negotiations. We cannot let other matters cloud what must be done. Talk of the Leviathan or the suggestion it's returned will do nothing but sow confusion across the isles."

"But it's good," Luca insisted. "Can't you see that?"

"All I see is a boy addled by sun and fear, stranded for days without company or provisions," Isabella said. "His hallucinations are hardly reason to go sounding off about...about witches and whales and gods returning-"

"King Lorenzo Valere claimed multiple visions of the Leviathan," Luca said. "He wrote about them in his Tomes, and he describes it exactly as the boy does. I can fetch them for you from the Library if you've forgotten-"

"King Lorenzo Valere burned himself alive because he thought his enemies were trying to murder him with ghost soldiers and only open flames would ward them off," Isabella said. "Really, Luca, it's like you want to sound like a madman."

"Maybe I do," Luca said. "If that's what it takes."

"Any judgment made by you is suspect after tonight," Isabella shot back. She shook her head. "Every time you have a chance for the contrary, you insist upon failure."

Luca narrowed his eyes and half-rose from his chair. "Say that again, Bell, while I'm on my feet."

Isabella moved closer, facing him down. "Foolish," she said. Her hands curled into fists; she ached to throw one square into his face, skew that straight nose sideways. "Naive. Useless. You could never be a king. Never. Not if Lapide sank to the bottom of the sea and all you had to rule were the bones of your own bloody beast-gnawed corpse-"

"Oh, do your worst, Isabella."

"Go on," Isabella spat. "Push me. I dare you."

"I don't think you could survive a push from me. I can be extraordinarily exasperating."

Heat pulsed around Isabella's eyes. "Survive," she said. "Don't make me laugh. You were given command of one ship, Luca. One damned ship. And you failed that, too, and everyone on it burned because of you-"

"Yes." Luca's eyes were bright, his voice soft, and all the worse for it. "Just like father."

Her composure shattered. Isabella gathered herself to lunge.

"Enough!"

Queen Sofia's voice sliced between them, ringing off the vaulted heights of the grand room, off the watching heads of elk and saber-fanged Buyani leopards mounted high on the walls, glass eyes glimmering like they were listening in. Isabella stepped back. Her mother's eyes were wide; spots of color burned on her cheeks. One fist was pressed to the hollow of her throat, clutching something on a long chain. She knew that look in the queen's eyes. She knew fear all too well.

Her mother, afraid? She'd seen the queen's grief. She'd seen her elegant, deadly rage. She'd seen her send men to their deaths, and seen her pride, full and glowing like the sun. She'd never seen her afraid.

And of what? Not of her, surely, but that was what it looked like as she stared at Isabella from across the room.

"Mother?" Isabella said. She stepped closer. "Are you..."

Her mother lowered her hand from her throat. Her composure returned, like a veil dropped over her features.

"I am fine, Isabella," she said. She addressed the maids and guards next. "You will take this boy to the infirmary. You will ensure he is well-fed and his injuries treated. You will send a letter to Pavaloir inquiring as to his identity, and informing Estara of the loss of their vessel. We will not speak of this again."

"Thank you," Isabella said.

"No," Luca said. He brushed past Isabella, tossing his towel to the floor. "No, don't you see we could have a chance, for learning, for discovery-"

"Your sister is right," the queen said. "Now is a time for balance, not uncertainty."

Isabella heard Luca's harsh inhale, but he said nothing. He stood, damp strands of his hair hanging over his forehead, hands in fists at his sides. He released them with an exhale and turned, bracing one palm against the carved lintel of the fireplace.

"Does that bring the matter to an end?" the queen asked.

But as Isabella drew breath to agree, a different sound filled the air: the clamor of bells, an unmistakable four-count syncopation, echoes pealing across the Palace battlements. Alois's guards hefted rifles, flanking their prince as he looked around, eyes wide. Isabella whirled, her hand slipping around the grip of her sword as she stepped reflexively in front of her mother.

Someone had sounded the alarm.

The Palace was under attack.

#togl #tales of the great leviathan #serialfiction #original fiction #serial novel #fantasy fiction #chapter 8

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marblesinmycoffee · 1 year

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Dear Diary, I have a roommate [Chapter 4]

Dear Diary,

As I feared my new Intruder seems to intend squatting himself permanently in my room. The whole night they occupied my room, though at least they didn’t hustle around through the night. They just laid in the corner, they cushioned, without a noise and barely moved. It gave me time to recollect myself as well as tallying my remaining dust. I also pondered over this vexing situation. As a matter of course, I can’t banish nor debate nor lure them out of my room. Self-evidently, it is futile to affect entities, whose existence is so detached from me and the room. But this principle ensues, that they are not inherently ingrained in the room as I am. Therefore, their temporality in my space is guaranteed. So naturally the most reasonable and only possibility is to do nothing more against this incommodity than to hold it out. Eventually the squatter will move on like the mouse. Like the light. Like the wind. Even some specks of dust just come in my room to just pass through. All it takes is just a bit of time and all will pass except me and this room… And for now, due to the lack of dust, I will pass the time by inspecting the new oddities and objects of my persistent little roommate.

#dear diary i have a roommate #pixel art #pixelart #pixel art room #pixel room #digital art #story #creative writing #little stories #serialstory #serialfiction #writeblr #original fiction #specks of dust #solution do nothing #roommate #dropped the title #kinda

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esculentevil · 2 years

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(WhiteCancer) Cells At Work AU: Threes

Clones aren’t supposed to be sentient. Cancer’s just a forever fuck-up. But he loves this strange clone. And, soon, U-1146 does, too.

Read More on AO3 OR...

It was meant to be a joke.

Normal cells don’t wear hats (Cancer never had a chance to learn WHY that is but he figured it has something to do with the way viruses like influenza spreads: via attachments to the cell’s head/brain that end up looking like really funky hats) and other cells like Red, White, T, and B all seem to have a dumb attachment (no pun intended) to THEIRS, so Cancer wanted to have some FUN with that.

Meaning, of course, that he wanted to TEASE his kind-hearted killer, U-1146.

So, during their first fight in his third outbreak, he stole his hat.

It was only meant to tease.

Cancer had wanted to keep a part of his kind killer with him wear the hat and joke that he was a White Blood Cell, himself: after all, he’s about as white, right?

But when the chips settled down (literally in The Body’s stomach acid) and, assuming what Cancer heard blaring through the immune cell’s radio was right, a tape worm was sighted trying to latch itself onto The Body, he took his chance.

Cancer ran off as a mass of flesh carefully protecting a White Blood Cell hat.

It was meant to be NORMAL.

The slob of flesh that came off him so he could mold it like clay into something—soldier-like, his mind had fleetingly thought; and, if Cancer can be honest, that... might be WHY this happened in the first place; because, as much as they deny it (and, no, he’s not sure if he means the White Blood Cells or Killer Ts or BOTH), ALL members of the Immune System ARE soldiers: including his kind killer...—that was supposed to be like every other cancerous tumor he’d ever made.

It was supposed to be a brainless, faceless, worthless, meaningless CLONE.

The sweet, smiling little boy with his hair and HIS eyes... is anything but.

((Inspired by Forgive, Not Forget and my inane kink for power bottoms in their service top’s stuff. I really wanted Cancer in 1146′s jacket or something but the hat is a good first and just easier... We’ll get to the jacket a little later~ >;3 For now tho: CAW fandom, you have now been POKED! xD;;; Please let me know what you think; I really love this ship but it seems kinda dead so...))

#cells at work #hataraku saibou #u-1146 #cancer cell #whitecancer #shirogan #child oc #original character #ThreesAU #mywriting #serialfiction

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epic-whimsy · 2 years

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So I finally revived my Kindle Vella story, A Queen of Aether. There are 6 episodes live now with #7 coming next week. If you like pulp fantasy stories with sword fights, monsters, magic, and banter, this could be for you.

#kindlevella #kindle vella #writing fantasy #writing serials #writerscommunity #serialfiction

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dreacwrites · 2 years

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Looking for a story to sink your teeth into? Check out the paranormal romance Unexpected Destiny exclusively on Kindle Vella.

Savannah Moore's life has always been perfect, eerily so. She lived without risk and caution and a feeling of dread had always kept her from straying too far from the town she lived in.

A chance encounter, or so she thinks, with a dashingly handsome man, turns her safe life upside down when she learns the truth about the world around her - witches and vampires are real and both were in danger.

#kindle vella #novella #paranormal romance #spicy romance #bookblr #interracial romance #short reads #serialfiction #vampires #witches

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novaecaelumauthor · 2 years

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The first season of The Stars and Green Magics (The Truthspoken Heir) has the top card in Radish's Sci-Fi today! 🎉🌈 I'm almost done posting the first season on there, and the second season will start soon.

#queer fantasy #queer sci fi #queer writers #trans writers #fiction #radish #my writing #nonbinary books #sapphic books #royalty #space opera #nonbinary writer #genderfluid #serialfiction #serial fiction #writers on tumblr

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splinteredrealities · 1 month

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Murder Among Mages: Episode 1

Elara stood at the streetlight waiting for it to change, staring in astonishment across the road. She could barely believe her eyes. She’d stood in this very spot just that morning and could have sworn on a stack of books that the sign for the library hadn’t been there then. In the heart of the bustling city of Denham, where the smoke of industry blended with the ash of broken dreams, Elara…

View On WordPress

#Bridgertonmeetsmagic #Fiction #serialfiction #short stories

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syphoncontinuity · 5 months

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Coming Friday: Cameron finally gets to work, and it's a bit...distracting. Also, I have do some pondering what how easily it is to clock a woman writing a male character, and whether the tools for doing it are outdated.

Read the book now at syphoncontinuity.substack.com.

#ChapterHighlight #indieauthor #indienovel #novel #originalfiction #serialfiction #syphoncontinuity

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jreynoldsward · 1 year

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Gabe learns that he's not the only one with secrets. Ruby has a few to share as well.

https://joycef1d.substack.com/p/multiple-disclosures-part-two

#fictionfriday #sciencefiction #sciencefictionwestern #serialfiction

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malexander04 · 1 year

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Dead Earth Wanderers - Chapter 2 - Bakersfield Civil War

They had been driving for close to two hours by now, in a lone armored car traveling along a crumbling road through a dry, dusty landscape. The trip had been mostly silent, perforated only by the occasional short conversation or crack of radio static as Jack scanned through various dead channels for any warning broadcasts. However, as the pair of travelers approached their current destination, Jack, without taking his eyes off the ruined roadway, addressed Dalla.

“I suppose I should tell you a bit about Bakersfield. Now, I have been to Bakersfield once before, though only for a short time. Most of what I know comes from that trip and things I’ve heard from traders, so I can’t say how much of what I know is accurate, but from what I remember, there are still parts of the city with lethal radiation levels as a result of fallout from old nuclear plants that blew in from the South, settling unevenly throughout the city. Thankfully, that shouldn’t be a problem for us, as several settlements are darted throughout the safe parts of Bakersfield, which have established some kind of federation among themselves. They’ve even created a detailed system of safe transportation routes through the city. Getting through Bakersfield shouldn’t take long.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Yeah. I’ve spent almost my entire life in Prather, apart from the one trip I made with some other people which took us through Bakersfield and as far as Las Vegas. Though that’s the only time I’ve ever been that far.”

“What were you doing on that trip?... Jack?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He said in a solemn tone. The two sat in awkward silence for a little while until Dalla asked another question in an urgent tone.

“You don’t think they’ll do anything to me, will they?”

“Nah, you should be fine. You’ll get some odd looks sure, but the people of Bakersfield are detached enough from the events in Cascadia that they shouldn’t try to hurt you. They also don’t like slavers, so that’s an added plus... hey, look up ahead. I can see Bakersfield now.” Farther down the road the two could see the remnants of Bakersfield, which hadn’t been a very large city before the war, being only a bit smaller than Fresno in terms of population. As they got closer to the ruined city, what looked like a makeshift checkpoint came into view, and Jack began to slow down as they approached. However, as they got closer, he slammed on the brakes and came to a dead stop, grabbing his assault rifle as he did.

“Dalla,” he started, in a serious tone, “get on the machine gun. Something’s wrong here. I’m going to investigate.” Without waiting for a response, Jack got out of the armored car, followed quickly by Dalla who climbed onto the back of the vehicle and did as Jack had instructed. Raising his gun, Jack crept towards the checkpoint while scanning his eyes around the area for any signs of movement. There were two dead bodies in front of the checkpoint, both men, and as Jack got closer, he could see bullet casings scattered on the ground. Looking through the broken window of a small makeshift booth, he saw the blood-soaked corpse of a woman crumpled on the floor. He walked into a small radio room opposite the booth and found the slumped over body of another man.

“Jesus Christ,” Jack thought to himself, “what the hell happened here? There are bullet holes everywhere, and all these guys were shot multiple times, yet they all appear unarmed. The booth and radio room both look like they’ve been gutted of anything useful, but the fact that this checkpoint isn’t just a pile of burnt rubble is uncharacteristic of raiders or slavers. So, who attacked them?” After deliberating for a few moments, Jack turned and cautiously walked back to his armored car, yelling “get back in the car!” as he did.

“Did you find anything?”

“Just more questions than answers. We need to be careful going forward. Something’s going on here, and I don’t think raiders are involved.” After deliberating for a few more moments, Jack slowly drove forward to avoid the bodies on the road before cautiously continuing deeper into Bakersfield. The streets were quiet and desolate for a supposedly still inhabited city, even if the habitation was only partial. The atmosphere in the car was tense as both travelers began to feel a sense of dread. Every so often, as they drove through the streets of the city, they’d pass up very clear signs of battle, some of which were more recent than others. Damaged and sometimes burning armored vehicles, abandoned and destroyed checkpoints, destroyed machine gun nests, and even a few bodies littered the roads.

As they were driving up a relatively clear street towards an intersection, a group of armed men stepped out from either side of the intersection and blocked the road. One of the men held up a megaphone.

“Attention unidentified party. Stop immediately and get out of the vehicle. If you fail to comply, we will shoot.”

“Dalla, slowly get out. Don’t make any sudden movements, but be ready to run or dive back inside in case things go South.” Jack said in a tense voice while keeping his eyes fixed on the armed men.

“Why? Can their bullets really tear through this thing's armor?”

“No, but look at that man over there, on the far left,” he said, pointing towards a man holding a crudely made tube-shaped object, “That’s a hand cannon. They’re not very accurate, but one lucky shot to the front of our car would be enough to kill us both. And at this range, Lady Luck would sure as hell be on his side. Now, no more questions, just do as I say.”

The two travelers stepped out of their armored car in near unison, arms raised, while making sure they were still close enough to their vehicle to take cover. There were a few audible murmurs amongst the group of armed men as they laid eyes on Dalla, her colorful appearance being strange even amongst the desolate, irradiated wastelands that they called home. After a few moments a short, middle-aged black man emerged.

“Identify yourselves!” he barked.

“My name is Jack McSmithson, from the town of Prather near Fresno,” he yelled back at the men, “and my companion here is Dalla, a mutant who fled Cascadia to escape persecution. We’re just travelers who are trying to reach Las Vegas. We mean no harm.” The leader of the group eyed the two suspiciously for several moments.

“Jack, come closer to me. I’m getting tired of shouting,” he yelled. Jack and the leader of the armed men slowly approached each other, walking over a dusty layer of sand, some broken glass, and small chips of brick and concrete that had come off the nearby buildings until they were face to face, the middle-aged man introducing himself as Captain Terrance Alejandro. “Alright Jack, I have a few questions for you. Firstly, have you been to Bakersfield before?”

“Yes, though that was several years ago. I was just passing through then, just like I am now.”

“Ok, secondly, tell me more about your sky-colored friend over there. You said something about fleeing persecution?”

“Yeah. She and the rest of her people come from Cascadia, north of California, after the regular looking people there began to slaughter them all. Admittedly, I didn’t think there was any truth to the stories I’d heard about the blue people until I met her in Fresno. Some mutant hounds had gotten the drop on the group of people she was with, and she was the only survivor. I decided to help her out, though I’m still not sure why I did.”

“Hm, I see. That certainly explains why she’s here, and with you; but what about yourself, you said you were from a place called Prather?”

“Mhm. Prather was a small place to the Northeast of Fresno, with probably only about thirty people living there.”

“Was?”

“I was just about to explain that part. You see, I was a scavenger for Prather, and yesterday when I was sent out to do some scavenging, I returned to find that Prather had been attacked by raiders... I’m the only one left.”

“Well damn, I’m sorry to hear that; but, anyways Jack, I think I believe what you’re telling me about where you and your... friend... are from, but unfortunately standard procedure requires me to have you detained for further questioning. These are dangerous times, after all, and Bakersfield isn’t as safe as it once was.”

“What the hell is going on around here, Captain?”

“Well, you see-” Gunshots rang out from nearby, cutting the Captain off, followed by shouting and a few small explosions. “Ah shit!” he growled, before then ordering three of his men to escort Jack and Dalla to a nearby settlement called New Venola while ordering the rest to take up defensive positions. Three of the armed men approached Jack and Dalla and ordered them to get onto the back of their armored car where its machine gun was. Two of the armed men joined them on the back while the third climbed inside, driving towards New Venola. The intersection where they had been was barely out of eyesight when the sounds of a fierce gun battle erupted from its direction.

Reaching New Venola only took a few minutes; the settlement itself consisted of old, repurposed buildings combined with new ones built from scrap materials, surrounded by a wall of corrugated metal and wooden pallets, with several makeshift watchtowers strung along. They were stopped at a small checkpoint just outside of New Venola for a few moments before being allowed inside. The armed men parked Jack’s armored car by a small two-story building made from several shipping containers and truck trailers, where they then searched Jack and Dalla for any hidden weapons or contraband before leading them inside. One of the armed men, joined by several other people, began unloading Jack and Dalla’s belongings which were taken into a different section of the building.

The two travelers were placed into a small, windowless room to await questioning, being locked inside by the two men who promptly left. Twenty-five minutes silently passed by as the pair of travelers sat, waiting to be questioned. The silence was broken as an explosion occurred just outside, rattling the small building, followed by the sounds of gunshots and more explosions. The sounds of screams and shouting could vaguely be heard through the walls. Jack looked over at Dalla and saw that she was reaching for a seemingly unremarkable hairpin in her hair, which she began to fiddle with. It split into several pieces, after which Dalla went over to the door of the room, which had a double-sided lock, and began fiddling with it.

“Just what are you doing over there?”

“I don’t know what’s going on outside,” Dalla started, not even looking away from her work, “but I don’t think either of us want to stick around to find out.” She reassembled the hairpin, put it back in her hair, then pushed the door open, “Now, let’s get going.”

“Where’d you learn to do that?” Jack asked as he stood up and followed Dalla out the door.

“I... I can tell you later. Let’s just get out of here first.”

The two went to the front door of the building and peaked outside, seeing the chaos that was unfolding; armed men had taken up positions all along the wall, its entrances, and its watch towers, firing at an unseen enemy on the other side. A large hole had been blown into the wall, through which Jack and Dalla could only just vaguely see the movements of more armed men who were attempting to push closer to the small settlement. Through the thin walls of the makeshift building they were in, the pair of travelers could just barely hear the sound of something sailing through the air, followed by a loud explosion as a shell from a hand cannon slammed into the center of New Venola, ripping apart a small wooden building and sending splinters flying out in every direction.

The two went out into the fray and snaked around the building to another door, this one leading to a storage room where their belongings had been taken. Dalla was able to pick its lock, granting the pair access to the room. They immediately began gathering their things, though it took a while to get everything moved back to their armored car, as their belongings were mixed in with various other confiscated pieces of contraband, weapons, and ammunition. After a few minutes, they had managed to gather all of their belongings and were preparing to leave, when Jack realized he was still missing something. Dashing back into the storage room, Jack practically turned the room upside down looking for his last item before finding it under a table; an old photograph.

Jack rushed out of the room and into his armored car, speeding off towards a nearby gate which he proceeded to plow straight through, speeding down the road and past several armed men who appeared to be attacking New Venola. A shot from a hand cannon hit the storage room and detonated, setting off all of the stored ammunition, causing a massive explosion that ripped most of the building apart. As he sped down the road, a man holding a hand cannon suddenly stepped out from a nearby building and aimed at Jack’s armored car, causing him to swerve and slam into a nearby building, where his car became stuck. Before he could regain his senses, a man with an assault rifle rushed over, opened Jack’s door, and tore him out of the armored car, slamming him on the ground and putting their foot on his chest. They aimed their gun right at his head and prepared to fire, but stopped just short as Dalla yelled at the man to stop, her appearance catching the man off guard and causing him to freeze. An Asian woman of higher rank rushed over to where they were and motioned for the man to move away from Jack, before looking down at Jack himself.

“Tell me boy,” the woman said in a Texan accent, “what’s your name? You look familiar to me.”

“Jack McSmithson, from Prather,” he replied, trying to regain his breath after having the wind knocked out of him when he was thrown to the ground, “I came through Bakersfield a few years ago with three other guys. We were involved in an incident with a group of slavers disguised as regular merchants.”

“Ah yeah, I remember you now. What’re you doing back here?”

“It’s a long story, but me and my companion there in my car are trying to get to Las Vegas.”

“Well Jack, you picked one hell of a time to come to Bakersfield. We’re in the middle of a civil war right now. Now that I know who ya are, I’ll let you continue on your way, but first,” she pulled out a piece of paper and wrote something on it before helping Jack up and giving it to him, “here’s a note from me. Continue straight down this road and you’ll eventually reach a settlement under our control. Once there you can get access to maps that’ll help you pass safely through the city while avoiding the combat zones. If anybody tries to stop you, show ‘em this note, and if they're not working for the enemy, they should leave you alone.” With that, the woman ordered some of her men to help pull Jack’s armored car out from the part of the building it was stuck in. Jack climbed inside and continued his way.

They reached the next settlement, and after showing the note to some checkpoint guards, they were allowed inside. From there, Jack acquired some hand-drawn maps from a small government office which detailed the exact routes he needed to drive along to safely traverse through Bakersfield; while at that office, he asked what caused the civil war, and had learned that it had been caused by disputed election results and electoral fraud. It took about an hour of careful driving along various twisting and turning paths being used by various other travelers, both local civilians and foreign travelers like Jack and Dalla, snaking past the various pockets of lethal radiation and active warzones until eventually reaching the end of Bakersfield. Once outside of the anarchic city ruins, Jack drove back onto the main, cracked and crumbling roadway and plunged back into the dry and dusty desert before him, setting course for Las Vegas.

“Who was that woman from before? And what were you two talking about?” Dalla asked Jack.

“That woman’s name is Jada. We met during my first trip to Bakersfield, though she was just a regular soldier back then, and not a commanding officer like she is now. She’s actually kinda similar to you, now that I think about it.”

“How so?”

“It’s because, just like how you were forced out of Cascadia by those maniacs up there, she was forced to flee Texas when it was invaded by white supremacists.”

“Oh, well that’s sad. Did you two meet during whatever it was you two were talking about?”

“Yeah, that incident I mentioned while talking to her was something that happened when I first passed through here. A caravan of slavers was passing through the city, but due to the hostility that slavers face around there, they’d disguised themselves as regular merchants. To make a long story short, we found out who the slavers actually were, a deadly gunfight ensued, and the slavers fled the city, heading towards Las Vegas, with me and some other people chasing after them.”

“Oh, I see. Why were you chasing them?”

Jack’s eyes narrowed a bit when he heard the question. “It's a long story. I don’t wanna bore you with all the details.” he said in a tense tone.

“Well, uh, ok then.” Dalla turned away and looked through the small slits in the metal plating which covered the car window next to her, out into the wasteland landscape around them. Seemingly board, Dalla reached behind her and rummaged around a bit, eventually pulling out a book. Wiping dust off of it, she opened up the book and began to read through its yellowed pages.

#post apocalyptic #post apocalypse #post nuclear #sci fi #science fiction #fiction #serialfiction #short fiction #chapter #chapter 2 #original writing #creative writing #original story #original fiction #war #death

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Chapter 22- Ziva

***

Not for hundreds of years, since before the Sundered Empire, had the title of Witchhunter been literal. Not until now, at night's edge, upon this storm-lashed crag of the world. But these were the days of legends, and monsters returning. Where there were monsters, there would always be those who came to hunt them.

Ziva's body burned with furious energy as she shouted orders. The crew hauled the chest of nets up the mountainside, their prisoner leashed between them by his chains, his bare blue feet slipping on the rain-soaked steps. The steps continued past the cave, up the summit of the highest peak and to this place, open to the wind and the storm, no higher point but the sky.

Lightning cracked, a scar of blue-white across the clouds.

The steps ended at a flat expanse of rock, far end falling in a sheer cliff. Nothing was there to stop a fall, nothing but mist and empty air all the way down, hundreds of feet to crashing waves. Standing stones towered, three of them arranged in a triangle some twenty yards across. The stones were monolithic, sentinels facing the storm, their surfaces cracked and smoothed by millennia of driving rain.

"This the place, sir?" she asked Azare. He nodded, wordless, his eyes set on the gathering clouds overhead.

The crew prepared, anchoring chains around the bases of the standing stones. From these were coiled cables, long hooked javelins spliced onto their ends and loaded into waiting ballistae. Not the king's spellfire javelins, but these were deadly enough. Ziva tested their points, their heft. She examined the chains link by link. The stones were ancient, roots wound deep into the mountain beneath. They'd been here for countless centuries, and would weather the storms of countless more. Ziva cast them a critical look, hoping they'd hold past tonight.

"Think they'll work, Lieutenant?" a Witchhunter asked her.

"I don't know. But they're the best we have." She gave the chain a last tug. It would be enough. It would have to be.

She would not fail tonight.

In the center point between the standing stones, a shallow bowl was formed in the ground, a basin collecting rainwater. A ritual place. It was here the prisoner was pushed. His eyes were closed tight, his head lowered. His shoulders shook inside his prison uniform. Ziva heard his muttered prayers. Little good they'd do him now.

"Put him on his knees," Ziva ordered. Azare stood at the cliff's edge, staring out across the sky. Ziva glanced at him, then turned back to the prisoner. "Now."

With a kick the prisoner went down, palms slapping the wet rock. Chains rattled as a gust of wind rushed past, stronger than before, blasting Ziva's hair from her face. This storm, it was a monster, a living force. Ziva saw the full brunt of it coming, its hanging curtains of rain, and felt a throb of dread in her heart. The forces at work here were far greater than any she'd seen before, older and stronger than her, older and stronger even than Estara.

For an instant she wavered- tiny things, all of them, standing on a knuckle of rock on the surface of the world's skin, and beneath them the great and unsounded-

She steeled herself, straightened her spine. The resolve rushed back in. This was no place to lose her nerve. All the same her fingertips tapped at her knife hilt, its worn bone pommel dimpled with decades of her fear. A knife's like a will, her father had whispered, his voice nearly eaten by the disease, the whites of his eyes turned black and wet. Even the smallest one's enough to dig with, enough to hunt with, enough to kill with, if that's what you really need it to do.

How strengthless his hands had been as he'd pressed the knife into her grip. It was that will he'd spoken of, and in no small part the plain knife, that had brought Ziva here, to world and belief's edge.

Could be my grave, pa. Just as you got yours.

"They're coming," Azare said.

He turned, facing her. Lightning struck again, and in its flood of brilliance Ziva saw his face, his narrowed eyes, the hard mask of resolve he wore whenever he fought. His hair was bright as blood, the only color in all the world. The bone knife he'd brought from the cave was in his hand, a long pale shard, rainwater trickling from its tip.

"Nets?" he called. "Artillery?"

Another Witchhunter answered. "Ready, sir!"

"Then we begin." He paced toward the prisoner. A third lightning strike split the sky, and thunder purled, shaking the stone under Ziva's feet. Her heartbeat was in her mouth. Her hands ached to be filled with blades.

Azare wound his hand deep in the prisoner's hair and yanked his head back, exposing his throat to the storm. The prisoner still prayed. Ziva saw his lips flutter.

"Brace yourselves!" Azare cried, and slashed the knife across the man's throat.

Red spurted, brilliant and arterial, spattering the stones. Azare let the prisoner go, and he slumped forward into the basin of rainwater. Coils of blood unspooled into the water, dyeing the basin a deep red. Ziva smelled the pall of blood hanging amidst the stones.

Pulse.

Ziva stiffened. The others must have felt it, too: a ripple through the island like a skipped heartbeat, a single hard throb in the pit of her guts.

Gazes shifted toward the sky, away from the dead man and the stones and toward the storm. A keen echoed over the wind, an eerie cry like some great hawk's. Ziva's hands flexed. Her heart raced, her eyes wide, not wanting to look away, searching the skies for the first sign of movement.

Shadow rippled:

Something massive, mere meters overhead.

Another cry. Not a hawk's; this belonged to something bigger, much bigger. Another pulse came, a spike of pressure in Ziva's ears. She winced at the pain. Not magic, not this time.

Wingbeats.

Shadow rippled again, wheeling round. Ziva caught a glimpse of pinion feathers, spread wings. It was riding the storm. Impossible- those winds would rip an ordinary bird apart.

This is no ordinary bird, she thought.

It angled its wings, its shadow made diffuse by churning clouds. Impossible, impossible- the word echoed through Ziva like a prayer, but it couldn't cancel out what she was seeing. It was a bird, a vast black raptor shape, circling them. Flickers of lightning trailed from its wings. She had never seen anything so huge take to the air, never before. Those wings would drown the Mistfox in shadow.

The monster circled them again, whipping the clouds into a funnel, and that time Ziva caught a glimpse of its flexed talons, each one hooked like a scimitar.

"It's close, sir," she called out, whirling once more toward the standing stones, toward Azare, bloody knife still in hand.

"Ready the javelins!" he cried. "On my signal!"

Another shriek echoed down, and the wind responded, a blast to sweep them from the mountain and send them spinning to the waves.

Azare's command cut through the storm.

"Fire!"

A volley of sharp, metallic twangs sounded; javelins shot toward the core of the dark mass as it circled, vanishing into the clouds. Cables unspooled from their tails, fast as whiplash. For a moment of dread Ziva thought they'd missed, and then she heard the scream. No longer eerie, no longer weaving through the storm like some weird music, but a howling shriek of pain.

Of rage.

The cables snapped taut. The clouds thrashed, wingbeats arrhythmic as the witch struggled to stay aloft.

"Bring it in." Azare's voice was raw, burning. He strode forward, standing over the prisoner's corpse, the lines of his body tense as the javelin cables. Waiting. Waiting. Ziva's heart blazed; it hurt to look at him, it hurt because he was so beautiful, and so far away, and maybe there was no reaching him, not in this world, not in any.

Cables strained, metallic crackles echoing through the ritual ground. The dark shape circled, and Ziva heard the wingbeats stutter, falter, stop.

She backed away.

"Captain," she warned. The mass hurtled closer, huge as a falling moon. Black liquid spattered Ziva's face from above, hot against her numb skin. The monster's blood. It was wounded. More than wounded, it was plummeting from the damned sky.

"Azare!"

He stood in its path, head still tilted back, his hair plastered to his skull. Witchhunters shouted warnings to Ziva, to get back, to get out of the way, but she ignored them. She sprang forward. Rain raked at her face like grasping fingers. Lightning crackled: she glimpsed outspread wings, heard the monster's scream like blades driven through her head.

She lunged for Azare. All her weight was in it, and she took him down, hard. They crashed to the ground, tangled limbs and hammering hearts, an instant before the witch hit the mountain.

It slid past them, close enough to brush Ziva's cheek with one outstretched wing, to suck her hair and release it in the backdraft of its wake. Impact jarred Ziva to the teeth, a boom like the reverberation of cannon fire. Wings thrashed, flinging arcs of lightning and rainwater. Ziva heard stone crack, one of the standing stones uprooted, listing to the side with the grind of rock against rock. Her mouth tasted of metal. She'd bitten her tongue.

"Nets!" she screamed- "Nets! Now!" -and was rewarded with the sound of cables slicing through the wind. Nets blossomed, spinning toward the vast bird like the mantle of some strange deep-sea squid. Weights whirred and clattered, fringing the edges of the nets. As the witch reared its head the nets engulfed it, weights driving the monster down to the wet stone.

Azare stared up at Ziva, and she met his eyes, white-ringed and so dark she could not differentiate iris from pupil.

"Sir-" she gasped.

He pushed her off. "Up, Lapin. This is no place to fall."

She scrambled to her feet as Azare stood and strode toward the downed monster, his sodden mantle flaring behind him. The witch hunched, weighted down and entrapped by the web of cables. Even in such a state it was magnificent. Ripples of lightning coursed across its feathers. The ritual ground echoed with the blade snick of its great curved beak as it snapped and twisted at its bindings. Its wings were still half-furled, enormous black sails against the sky. The wind fluted past them, lifting them, as if its command over the storm might prove enough to break it free.

It was not so like an eagle, Ziva saw that now; those wings swept backward in points, its neck an elegant s-curve, its head long and narrow. Its jaws were lined with double-rows of jagged black teeth, visible each time it snapped at the cables. Keens shuddered from its throat, its golden eyes lucent, pupils shrunk to pinpricks. Blood matted the feathers behind one wing-joint, where the last few feet of the javelin jutted from the witch's side.

She approached, a pace behind Azare, her hand on her sword hilt. If the monster made a move for him she'd put her blade through one great golden eye.

The witch twisted as Azare drew near, neck arching. A crest fanned out behind its head. Cable scraped cable; wind howled, enough for the monster to catch underwing and rear back with a shriek. Pressure flexed. Talons flashed. Ziva's scream was lodged in her throat, horror pulsing behind her eyes, but Azare had not stopped, not even as his own blood spattered the stone at his feet. His blade was out in a hish of steel. Ripples of blue, reflections of the witch's lightning, fanned down its length as he pressed its point to the monster's keelbone. One forward thrust and he'd have its heart.

Ziva's hands trembled. Too close. Inches closer to his neck and Azare would be the one bleeding out on the ritual ground.

"Enough," Azare snarled. The wound bled freely, a gash across his chest and left shoulder, parting the fabric of his uniform. He twisted the swordpoint deeper. "I bind you in blood and in iron. I caught you, fair and true, and now you are mine."

Nictitating membranes flickered across the witch's eyes. Its body shuddered, feathers shivering; it pulled in on itself, folding, compacting; down drifted in the wind, fine and black as ash. The monster bird was gone. In its place knelt a boy. The javelin was still buried in his side, just under one arm. Black blood trickled down his skin. His hair was dark as the feathers of his bird form and falling in tangles to his shoulders. He was all ribs and sharp elbows, his nails stained black like he'd dipped his fingertips in shadow.

He lifted his head. His features were narrow, pointed, his tilted eyes vivid gold. A dart of cold passed through Ziva's heart.

"What..." the witch panted. "What do you...want?"

"You," Azare said.

He flicked the sword point under the witch-boy's chin, forcing his head up. "I am Captain Severin Azare, Royal Witchhunter of Estara. You know my kind as well as I know yours."

"Witchhunter." The witch shuddered again, hands curling into claws on the stone. "Curse you, curse your blade and your traps-"

"No curses, witch, and no games, either. I come on a king's word. I seek the Great Leviathan. And you can lead me to it."

The witch's eyes widened. "You heard it, too."

"Heard what?"

"So long I rode the winds, so long I waited far beyond safe waters." A pained smile drifted over the witch's face. "But I heard its heartbeat, and knew it wouldn't leave forever. And then it sang, and it was like a call heard through sea and star and sky. A call must be answered."

"I heard nothing but my king's command," Azare said.

The witch straightened with pained effort. Blood welled from his wound in heartbeat pulses. Ziva didn't know how he was still alive, much less conscious. This was old power, god-power. Whale-magic, like the turn of the stars, the rise and fall of the sea.

"No one's apart from the Leviathan," the witch said. "No one. Not even you."

Ziva drew her gun and pressed its muzzle to the back of the witch's head. She cocked it: a clean, sharp snap.

"Mind your manners," she said. "You're in Estaran company now."

His eyes flicked to her, gold bright as coins, as if lit from within. "You hear it too. All of you. No matter how you might deny it. All life flowed from its blood. Your sort is no different."

"And nor is yours," Azare said.

He lowered his sword from the witch's throat. Ziva looked at him, alarmed, but he didn't turn his gaze from the boy.

"Find us the Leviathan," Azare said, "lead us to it, and I'll give you your freedom again."

The witch bared his teeth in a dry grin. "You, who stole it?"

Azare stared for a heartbeat, then straightened and sheathed his sword.

"Sir," Ziva said, but Azare didn't indicate he'd heard her. He unfastened his fur mantle and held it out to the witch. The witch's eyes flicked to it, then to Azare's face, black brows drawn together.

"To sow death and give life in turn," Azare said. "Isn't that the way of the Leviathan? It can be my way, too. If you help us. If you bring us to it. If we win what we left Estara for."

Slowly, the witch reached out. He tugged the mantle from Azare's grip and slung it around his own shoulders, then stood. The net cables dragged and screeched at the ground, a tapestry of tangled, glinting steel. Bloody water streamed down the witch, pooling at his feet. The wind keened, then died, storm lifting as quickly as it had come.

"Promise me," the witch said. He really was no more than a boy, much the age Ziva had been the first time she'd tasted another's blood on her lips. The dust, the stinging sand. The way the sun had struck her knife, red as Estara's flag. A child, some might have said, who deserved a child's mercy. It was folly. No one was too young to die. "Promise me, Captain Azare."

"I promise," Azare said, lowering his head, and Ziva wondered how many times he'd promised impossible things, and how much of himself he'd lost to keep those promises.

"Then it's done," the witch said. His eyes pressed shut, face braced for pain. He wound his black-stained fingers around the javelin shaft and wrenched it out. His breathing became ragged, but he stayed upright, tossing the javelin away. It clattered across the stone. "Done, and done, and done."

Not yet, witch, Ziva thought.

Far away, thunder rolled, echoing across the sea.

***

Wounds always looked worse in lanternlight. Night had come, the clouds clearing from a northern sky the deep blue-black of tomb enamel and scattered with stars. No glorious Estaran firmament, this, with constellations so vivid Ziva felt their light trickling over her like honey. These stars were cold and distant. Under them, Azare's blood looked black. It had crusted down his chest and dried on Ziva's hands, coating them to the wrists like gloves.

"Far too close, sir," she murmured. Shouts and orders echoed from the surf as the skiff pushed off, half their men and the chests of nets and javelins loaded onboard. Running lights threw chips of gold across the waves. They were taking two trips, back and forth: equipment first, then a second for Ziva and Azare, and for the witch. The prisoner's body was absent. His corpse been burned where it fell, a bonfire lit atop the ritual ground, in the shadow of the fallen sentinel stone. A molten orange glow still smoldered atop the highest peak. "If its talon had gone any deeper-"

"I know, Lapin." Azare's voice was rough, his head bowed. He sat on a rock at the tidemark, one of many small boulders tossed to the base of the cliffs. Beach grass rustled in the breeze, the same dark gray as the stones.

Ziva knelt alongside him in the pool of lanternlight, cleaning his wound with quick, deft movements. Azare's skin was cold, but he gave little indication of feeling it, just faint shudders under Ziva's fingertips each time she touched him. It was hardly the first time he'd tasted pain. His body was all lean muscle and scar, slashes latticing his back and his sides, one pectoral nearly obliterated by what looked like a decades-old burn. Ziva had not been present for that one, but the rest she could name like old friends. This one, training, that one a duke's would-be assassin, a trio of bullet divots from the Three-Day War- all were familiar to her, as familiar as Azare's eyes or the sound of his voice. This new scar would fit right in.

Brushing her bloody fingers over the cleaned wound, Ziva let out her breath. "You should be more careful."

"All went according to plan."

"According to plan," Ziva scoffed.

"We captured the witch-"

"I saw you, sir," Ziva said. "After the cave. In the stone circle. You would have let yourself be crushed if I hadn't got better ideas."

His knuckles blanched. He still held the bone ritual knife, a trace of blood rusted on its edge. The surf whispered across the beach, withdrawing, leaving the sand a glistening ribbon of black. Ziva watched the skiff buoyed into the shallows, running lights giving it form as it glided away. The witch was silent in his cage, a small curled shape bound in yards of chains, such that would sink him to the seabed if he chanced to fall overboard. He had not spoken again. He crouched, dressed in too-big shirt and trousers, a barefoot urchin boy if not for those ghostlight eyes.

"My father would have had all kinds of stories about a night like this," Ziva said, after a long pause. She reached in the box of medical supplies for a phial of disinfectant spirit, a fresh needle, and a spool of sapsilk thread. "He said his gran would tell him things around the fire. About the world we live in just being a narrow strip of air to breathe, and there's another kind of sea up in the heavens, too, and we're looking up at it. The stars are fishes, far, far away. And the moons are the eyes of some vast monster, looking down at us hungry, waiting for the day the sky falls into the sea and it can open its maw to swallow us whole."

"And your father believed that?"

"Oh, he lit candles for Bellana, like we all do. The mine overseers wouldn't tolerate much pagan whispering. But he believed. In star-fishes, and orkwives, and the Deepmother, and the drowned cities. And that the Leviathan would come to deliver us from disease, and hunger, and nights of shivering in the dark."

Her voice grew soft. She sounded like she used to, a girl with blisters on her hands and unending aches who'd nevertheless sat with her father and sisters, her little brother balanced between her knees, to stare at the stars and listen to stories. She'd believed them too, each one. A naive child, stars in her eyes, dust in the lines of her hands.

She smiled tightly. "Him and his peasant superstitions."

"Sounds like your father was a poet."

Ziva yanked the thread through the needle's eye. The needle was curved like the witch's talon that had nearly ended Azare's life. "Nothing but poetry spouting from his lips, up until he died spouting fountains of black blood instead."

Azare didn't flinch as she began to stitch his wound. He stared out across the water, toward the breakers thundering against cliffs offshore.

"He sounds like a good man, too," he said.

Ziva snorted. "He spent all our money on drink, and gambled away the rest. Nearly drove my mother mad. Maybe it did, in the end. She was the first to die. Her, and then all the rest of us, night by night until there was nothing alive but me."

She lowered her head, concentrating on her stitches, on Azare's split flesh, anywhere but the haunted look in his eyes. He'd had that look ever since he'd stumbled from the cave, like he'd walked some faraway place Ziva wished she could follow. She hated it, hated his silence, hated how it all seemed like a punishment: not upon her, but upon himself, the kind of penitence she knew only a man as honorable as him could inflict.

"But yes," she continued, after a moment, her voice quiet. "In his way, he was kind."

"My father was many things, but kind was never one of them. My mother died giving birth to me, so I had to make up for all the sons I'd deprived him of. I was ever his soldier, his scholar, the vehicle of his vengeance. I think he hated Lapide even more than you do, Lapin."

She heard the hint of a smile in his voice. Somehow that unsettled her more than this unexpected candor, like in wounding him the witch had nicked some artery of memories, spilling them now onto the black sand. She knew of his father, General Jasque Azare, and of his legendary campaigns in the name of the old Belmont king, and of his legendary cruelty, too. She knew of his mother's early death, and had overheard plenty of rumors about its precise circumstances, but had never learned specifics.

Nothing that hinted of anguish, of a child forced to grow up too early. A life devoted to Estara, because what else was there but to fall, to lie down and die like the rest.

Stars and stories, fishes and dead fathers. A hallway, a laugh, murmured words whispered two decades past, and at once her silence was a dangerous thing. It all made a mad tangle from which there was little chance of escape.

Ziva had nearly reached the end of her stitching. She finished and cut her thread. Her stitches were regular, as always, but she still found herself feeling a prickle of dissatisfaction.

"When you left the cave," she said as she bandaged his chest and shoulder, "I saw your face."

She lifted her eyes and met his. Mirror black, like some bird's. She caught the faint reflected glimmer of starlight in them.

"What happened to you?" Ziva pressed. "What did you see?"

"Nothing that needs concern you-"

"I am your lieutenant," Ziva said. "Damn you, Azare, I am your friend, if you have such a thing in your miserable life."

She caught him, her palm cupping his face, fingertips pressed to the ridge of his cheekbone. She felt him stiffen, heard the faint catch of his breath. She was sure he felt through her hand the quickening of her heartbeat, but she was past caring. Let him feel. Let him know. "I can't serve you if you keep so many secrets from me."

"Serve me. Like a trained fox? Like a butler bringing me tea?" His tone was bitter, his voice a tired rasp. She looked at him, all of him, his untidy hair, the dark circles under his eyes growing darker day by day, his signs of aging- lines forming where there had not been lines before, a new sharpness of jaw, a new gauntness. How sleek and fine she'd thought he'd looked the first time she saw him, how beautiful and deadly, like some new-forged blade hot from the fire. The Royal Witchhunter of Estara. She'd thought he was a god. Now he was just a man, and a weary one at that. "You deserve more. You deserve-"

"-Evasions? Lies?"

"I would never lie to you."

"But you would keep secrets from me," Ziva said. "You would sooner die, crushed under a monster, than trust me with those secrets. Tell me how that's different than lying to me."

His eyes slid shut.

"If you knew me," he said, "if you knew all of me, these years we've served together would no longer matter. All we've done in the past, all we'll do in the coming days, will mean...dust. Worlds away from what we set out to uphold. Like your star sea."

"I want to be the judge of that."

"We all want, Lapin," Azare said, and that coldness was back, the mask returning. "There's a reason we don't always get what we want."

He pulled away. Ziva's hand slipped from his face, leaving smears of blood on his skin. His blood, his wound, the ache in Ziva's heart, like she was bleeding from the inside- it was all too much. Azare stood from the rock and shrugged on his shirt again, shaking the sand from his uniform and slinging it round his shoulders. Within seconds he'd gone from a weary, wounded man to the Royal Witchhunter again. Like he'd said: he stood worlds away, like the sea of stars, across an abyss. Never to be reached, not until the death of all things, not until the end of the world.

"Sir," Ziva said, her voice low, but he strode away with a snap of his cloak, headed for the surf. Ziva clenched her teeth and let out her breath, then gathered her medical supplies, stacking them in their case. Her eyes were dry, but her throat was tight. She wanted to punch something, maybe Azare, break his damn face open. He could hit her back, so she'd have something righteous to be angry about.

She heard the rustle of the witch in his cage. She cast a sharp look in his direction. How much had the monster heard? Everything, she had little doubt. Damn him. Damn Azare. And damn her, too, the way she let Azare slip his blade into her heart.

"There's a ghost riding on his back, you know."

The voice was little more than a whisper and the hiss of chain on chain. The witch's, though now it only sounded like a boy's. Please, whispered the dying boy in Ziva's memory, sunstruck blades and blood on the sand. No mercy for that one, either.

"What in all hells does that mean?" she said. "What ghost?"

"A terrible thing," the witch whispered. "Struggling to breathe. Its claws are so deep in his heart."

Ziva looked away. I know, she thought.

"Lapin."

She looked up. Azare stood some yards off. His expression was taut, inscrutable.

"We don't always get what we want," he said again, haltingly. "No matter how much we might want it."

He turned and walked away. Ziva watched him go, then let out her breath, tipped back her head, and stared up.

Maybe she'd been wrong. The stars did have a special kind of look to them tonight.

#togl #tales of the great leviathan #fantasy fiction #original fiction #serial novel #serialfiction #chapter 22

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