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The toe of his boot nudged at the golden sands of Sha'tris Th'ysn, watching the shift and flow of the grains over the black leather. How long had his head been wedged in the proverbial sand? Of late it was becoming abundantly clear to Y’Roden D’Riel that despite being King and Patriarch, he had absolutely no control over his own life. Past mistakes and continual lies kept everyone and everything off balance. One millimetre in the incorrect direction, and the entire house of cards would come crashing down.
He had spent some time alone after the last knock down drag out with Silverthorn, trying to get his head on straight. To no avail… his own company was apparently more of a hindrance than help. Perhaps he should have just let Arianne go. Granted her the peace she was seeking by removing himself from her life.
He couldn’t.
Selfish, that is what he was. He’d be damned if he lost a single thing he had fought so hard to attain. Blood sweat and tears was all he had known since his emergence from Tenobrous so long ago, and it was all Ro could see on the horizon.
Today he had left behind the headpiece that marked him as King, foregone the doublets, cast aside the pomp and pageantry that was slowly driving him mad. Comfortable black hunting-boots, worn-leather trousers, no shirt. It had been to long since he had indulged himself in a good sparring match, though that was not the only reason the half-elf had for coming here.
Ghetsuhm had asked him to speak with Callan, and that was just what he intended on doing. Oddly, the Black Dragon was one of the few people he could imagine discussing this with. There was a certain kinship between the two men, darkness almost left behind in souls that had turned to the light… though shadows and tendrils of what they had been would forever cling to the edges of who they now were.
Y’Roden had arrived early, needing to commune with the Arena perhaps… Without thinking he had fallen into motion, the Bastard-sword that had once belonged to Tager Terne glinting bright in the hot sun of Aerdon. Rhythmic, meditative patterns of defence and attack, a dance that moved him slowly across the burning sands and brought a glittering sheen of sweat to his skin.
Elven-blessed grace fuelled his movements, displaying a cat-like agility that belied his size, and an aggression that had been pent up for far to long. Bottled tension revealed itself in bunched, corded muscles and abrupt strikes, the deadly-accurate aim, thrust and slice of a man that not only had spent too much time on the battlefield, but also enjoyed
it.
Existence had been easier then… so simple in its purpose. Seize power, bathe in blood, thrive on pain. The creature Y’Roden had been once, could be again, had spilled oceans of blood, and sung to the symphony of countless screams. It took a great deal more effort to be the man he was now. He was fairly certain that if anyone had explained to him several millennia ago that giving a shit about what was right dropped you in a hell even darker than the one he had come from… he would have crawled right back into Tenobrous and wrapped himself securely in Samara for eternity.
It was too late now…
He had learned how to love… to live… to desire more than pain. He bore the reminders of his dark time… the blood-red stone set in a golden amulet that shone bright on his sweat-slick chest… and the black barbwire of Samara’s soul tangled in the emerald of his own. And… from time to time… the beast itself… He kept telling himself to see the genetic specialist Ghetsuhm had suggested, to have the thing removed from his DNA… but part of him felt he deserved the hell it brought.
Maybe he did.
Callan had known the moment Y'Roden D'Riel entered his Keep and knew exactly where he'd gone and why. Deliberately, the Emperor lingered in Thayaru’s and his chambers, then had taken his time to get to the Pit. Why? Because any time spent alone with Sha’tris was time well spent. The one-time assassin was dressed very similar to the King of S’Hean with one exception; he wore the usual comfortable black t-shirt he was so fond of. His Claymore was sheathed between his shoulder blades and a dagger hung low on each hip...he and Ro weren't here to play...sparring was a damn serious and bloody game at the Keep.
In silence, Callan crouched on the edge of the thick granite dividing-wall behind Y’Roden, not far from the Emperor’s private box. It had been rebuilt after the destruction wrought by Nargus during the Tourney and the drop to the sands was nearly thirty feet, yet to the dragon, when he chose to join the half-elf, it would be no higher to him than the drop off the edge of a bed was to a child.
Still watching, sensitive hearing began to pick up the hissing purr of the sands coming to life, topaz eyes watched unnatural ripples slither under the loose soil and radiate out from beneath Y’Roden’s steps. From the dragon’s point of view, Y’Roden looked like a pebble dropped in still water. Sha’tris felt the turmoil with the King, sensed something in his blood that sickened him and fed on it.
“Ahhh...so we meet again, Y’Roden D’Riel, demon warrior and elf king. You come here seeking balance...seeking answers to questions that should not be asked. I remember you, remember that which coils within your veins and chews at your nerves. I’ve tasted your blood...and his. I remember you both.”
The stirring grains of gold lifted in a breeze that seemed to come from nowhere, the swirling cloud formed the face of a woman and nebulous strands of pale hair teased and tickled the half-elf’s bare skin.
“So you come here to spar and talk with Araxmarr. I am rather fond of him you know...even more so now. Care to know why?”
Fine strands of glowing-gold light lashed out, pierced Y’Roden and delved deep within, reached for the emerald hurricane of his soul.
“D’Riel conduits are such fun to play with...as is power in its purest...most intoxicating form. Care to play?”
The half-elf stilled, his skin tingling with energy the polar opposite of S’Hea’s and dark lashes fell, shutting out the light as he concentrated on the force that was Sha’Tris. The pain that followed was welcomed with a choked off gasp and a momentary stiffening of muscles, the fingers of his sword hand convulsing on the hilt.
For several moments his soul attempted to reject the invasive gold strands, then suddenly latched on, pulling the energy deeper in, spiralling towards the dark void in the centre of the galaxy.
Emerald jewels snapped open, dropping to his chest -- to the stone. The crimson bubbled and oozed within its confinement, the Demoness in full rage. Y’Roden smirked and tapped on it lightly with one finger, aggravating it further before turning his attention back to the entity that was the arena.
“Good Morning Sha’Tris,” he murmured, “it is always a pleasure to play with you. I am honoured to be remembered.” The King was aware, peripherally, of the Emperor’s presence. The Blackthorn Dragon on his arm carved upon his flesh painfully, reacting to the presence of its counterpart. “I am always willing to play.”
"Ah...but play is not the only reason you are here..." Golden strands of power danced within shreds of emerald then funnelled into the black vortex, "You seek something...but what?"
A slender finger the colour of golden sand ran down Y'Roden's chest and wrapped around the wildly simmering amulet as Sha'tris began to solidify into a woman made entirely of sand. A light path of dust, sand and grit marked where her touch had been, left behind in the half-elf's sweat.
"Samara Mirage..." Dark feminine laughter echoed off the walls and towers that surrounded the Pit.
"How fitting...the master has become the slave...its a bitch...isn't it Samara?" Sha'tris turned her 'eyes' from the oozing crimson to Y'Roden's face, "Or has she? Does she still rule your actions? Order your steps? Or have you learned the darkness in your blood has a purpose, is there for a reason that you may not understand, but may save your life and that of those you love someday?"
Callan continued to watch Sha'tris 'teach' Y'Roden and ignored the writhing blood-mark on his wrist. His weight shifted slightly and one hand was draped across his bent knee while the fingers of his right hand pressed to the stone wall. Black wings curved into the morning sunlight as it broke over the stands, giving him the appearance of a gargoyle at dawn on the ledge of a cathedral.
"Hate that which is in you all you wish, D'Riel...think your friend and ally is honourable and good all you want, but I tell you this...you've only known Araxmarr a few hundred years...I have known him since he first set foot in this Keep...all nine-thousand years of his life. Hate yourself, let her continue to keep you in a hell of your own making if you like...but at least you were born in the light and your time spent in darkness is nothing compared to the time Araxmarr spent doing black deeds and spreading death."
The sands shifted around their feet and formed something of a mural of killing after killing. Moans and cries of intense pleasure dissolved into screams for mercy and gurgles of blood-soaked misery. They echoed like whispers of ghosts in the night through the arena and drifted away in to eerie silence.
Topaz eyes flicked to the sands and one single nerve twitched under Callan's right eye as he watched a replay of some of his more dastardly deeds. There was a time not long ago when he'd wanted to forget what he was, what he had been and let his soul embrace the silver in him, but then? What would he be now? There had to be balance...and to keep that balance, he had to remember who he was...not who he wanted to be.
"Aye..." Callan dropped heavily to the sand, his body landing in a low crouch he slowly rose from, "That's what I am...what I was. What I may yet become."
Sha'tris collapsed in a cloud of swirling sands, the images ceased and the sands grew still, "You and I are not so different...with one exception. I liked what I was...and still do. I liked the death, the pain, the hate, the Rage and it would take so little to set me on that path again...and I would enjoy it once more. Deny it all you like...but you and I? We are monsters, D'Riel, black abominations that have found grace in the arms of women who love us and in the eyes of our children."
Callan's Claymore slid free with a metallic hiss, fingers that had carried this same blade for thousands of years spun the sword in a glistening arc that reflected blue sky and golden sun.
"And may the gods have mercy on us if we lose them..."
“Exception?” Y’Roden’s baritone was low, questioning. “No… I do not think there is an exception…” There were two sides to the coin, and Y’Roden… he hovered balanced on the side, forever spinning… never landing on darkness or light. Both paths held pleasure and pain to varying degrees, different means to the same end. “One of us is just better at hiding their true nature than the other.”
Emerald eyes glowing softly with a backlight of gold lifted to meet topaz, “and should we ever lose them… it is not us the gods need have mercy on.”
He had refused to answer Sha’Tris’ questions… simply because he was unaware of the answers himself.
Did Samara still guide his steps? Dictate his actions? Obviously not directly, but through his own self doubt? As for what he was seeking… Y’Roden was not entirely sure.
Hate… it was self-hatred that kept him in the light, tamed the beast and made room for love. Someone had told him once… no one will love you until you learn to love yourself. He had proved that theory false several times.
“Ghetsuhm wanted me to speak with you,” he said finally, “your bond to my sister raised some concerns that hadn’t occurred to me as of yet. I imagine you have already stumbled across some part of it at least.” Taking a step back he flipped the hilt of the Bastard-sword into a more comfortable grip and nodded to his brother-in-law.
Both hands gripped the hilt of the claymore as Callan freely let Rage and Flame flood his system. The only outward sign was his glowing eyes as he watched Y'Roden D'Riel and slowly dropped into a half-crouch and circled the King.
"Then maybe one of us," Callan suddenly whirled and brought the gleaming sword in a screaming horizontal arc against Y'Roden's own upraised blade. The force of the two blades meeting sent a bone-jarring shock into Callan's hands, and he welcomed it. The Emperor's face was only inches from that of the King of S'Hean's as he finished his sentence with a low, dangerous growl, "needs to stop trying to hide what they really are and embrace it?"
A slow, arrogant grin curved one corner of Callan's mouth, an expression that he'd worn a great deal as an assassin and heir...one Y'Roden would remember most from the voyages of the Lisse Nwalme. Ro was one of the few people Callan made no effort to hide his true nature from...Ro was one of the few other than Tay who could possibly understand the caressing darkness that made up half his soul and writhed like a lover waiting on him to plunge into it.
"As for the other?" Callan shoved the heavy half-elf back, "Explain it to me and I don't mean the bullshit you've told everyone else."
Callan knew exactly what Ghet had been worried about and stumbling across it wasn't exactly what Callan had done...it was more of an...assimilation. What he'd seen had been through An'Thaya's memory, through her perspective and he'd not asked what it was he'd just seen or why it had happened. Simply being privy to his wife's memories didn't make him understand the whys or hows...just made him aware, nothing more.
Shoulder and bicep muscles bunched and bulged under the strain of Callan’s blade and Ro fell back a step before striking back, the edge of his bastard-sword screeching along the edge of the Emperor’s, sparks flying in an ember rain between them. “Embrace it? And risk falling back into it? What good would that do anyone?”
The duo resembled a pair of Angus bulls locking horns for a moment, till Ro pushed away, shaking sweat from his hair and swinging his weapon around in a tight circle near the ground. “Well there is the thing… we haven’t told anyone anything. We’ve just let them assume, it’s safer than outright lying.”
Emerald eyes studied his opponent, a rarity in that they were an equal match. “What exactly did you see?”
"I said embrace it...not drown in it..." Callan's dark, lopsided grin was still place as he nodded in acknowledgment of Y'Roden's skill and strength and stepped back a pace, "There is a difference." The one-time assassin shifted his grip from two-handed to one, his sword hand and his right. Sand and dust was settling on his body, dulling the sheen of sweat that was beginning to coat his body, leaving his skin a dirty-buff colour.
Callan's blade spun down in a crashing, diagonal swing at Y'Roden, the half-elf's head the mark. As the expected resistance met his blade, the Emperor's left hand had drawn the dagger from his hip and sliced a deep gash across Y’Roden’s ribs.
“Embrace it… use it… control it…” Callan rolled away, “before it embraces you.” Glowing eyes watched Y’Roden, the dagger remained in his hand as did his claymore. This was classic Blackthorn sparring, dagger in one hand, sword in the other. Mira hand learned to fight this way, as had her father. “
What did I see.” The conversation, to an outsider was strange, one moment heated and angry, dark and frightening, the next casual… a conversation between friends. “Other than wall to wall blood and you about to kill Galain… and from the looks of it, had already nearly killed Ghet. Not much.”
That was all he had seen, aside from Tay nailing him to the wall with a jolt of Aethyr. The scene had faded into other memories after that and Callan hadn’t picked at that glimmering star in her soul again, some things were best left alone until the right time, and it hadn’t taken much of a leap of imagination to work out what had happened, especially now that he’d met the demon not once, but twice.
“You know? You’re not a pleasant person when you turn wrong side out.”
“I do control it,” Ro snapped, “Otherwise… quite a few people would have stopped breathing long ago. Galain…” A feint to the left and a slamming punch with his right drove into Callan’s shoulder, the dagger in the brace springing free and piercing the Dragon’s shoulder. “Task…” The blade pulled back with his wrist, making an odd sucking noise in the process. “Perhaps even Ghet.”
Crimson-cracked-emerald eyes met topaz, “Killed Ghet? No, not exactly… it never came that close, she never reached the point of no return. It was just play…from it’s point of view.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, “Though it would have come to that, if An’Thaya hadn’t intervened. Galain would have died, and Ghet soon after… it knew she was carrying my child.”
“My child,” he repeated, his eyes flaring bright red for a moment, “it raped her, but Rhagi is mine…” Rage turned to laughter and he slugged the Emperor just on the principle of the thing, an unexpected blow that snapped Callan’s head back, “You think? Hell, I’m not a pleasant person in general… I’m just really talented at ‘playing nice’. Just…” he circled his friend, “like… you…”
As the dagger was pulled free from his shoulder, Callan's glowing topaz eyes flickered brighter and black wings snapped open in reflex to the searing hot pain that shot through his shoulder, ran down his dagger hand and across his chest. He'd not yet allowed the Rage full reign and had felt first the dull pain of D'Riel's fist, then the hidden blade sink deep, but the pain of it being withdraw seemed far worse. A low, draconic rumbling began deep within him and rolled out as a snorting snarl. Rage flooded his bloodstream, dulled the pain almost immediately and his mind was just wrapping around the fact that Y'Roden had named Task as someone who'd met the demon...which couldn't be, when Ro's fist crashed into his jaw and mouth.
Aware he was being circled, Callan shook his head to clear the flashes of crimson, black and white, then took a half step back and wiped the blood that was running down his chin away with the back of his dagger hand. A grinding snap of his head to the right and a slower roll to his wounded shoulder seemed to pop the vertebrae in his neck back into place but send fresh blood pouring down his chest, staining his shirt a darker shade of wet black. Y'Roden was directly behind him now; he could hear his footsteps grind in the sand and could smell his blood.
Callan began to pivot at a counter angle from Ro's circling and braced the over-long hilt against his forearm for stability, "No...not like me." A dark smile curled one corner of his mouth, "See, I LIKE what I am. I LIKE letting people believe what they want to about me." The claymore sailed low, aiming for the half-elf's knees and Callan's wrist snapped, sending his dagger thudding into the half-elf's chest as his bastard sword swung to block the dragonsteel blade.
"And just how..." Phosphorescent-topaz eyes glowing from full-blown BattleRage met Y'Roden's crimson-cracked emerald green, "could you have possibly known Task?" The question was asked in a soft, dangerous tone laced with disbelief and lurking wrath as he began walking with slow, measured steps toward his friend. Black began to ooze around the blood-slick fist of his left hand, forming an equivalent of brass knuckles tipped with dull points.
Sharp steel sliced through muscle and wedged against bone, sending a dull throb of pain through Y’Roden’s chest. Fingers shaking with adrenaline closed about the hilt and a sharp tug pulled it free with a gout of dark blood that coursed down the half-elf’s sweat slick skin.
“She never told you?” Aethyr-lit eyes were more crimson than emerald now and in places the King’s flesh rippled and bulged as if something was struggling to burst free of it. “One would think that at some point during all those years she would have mentioned me… at least once. You were slightly incapacitated at the time.”
The dagger flipped, the point wresting along his wrist towards his elbow. Striking with the left he pushed the Claymore up hard and fast, then brought in the right, dragging Callan’s own dagger across his ribs, shredding shirt, skin and muscle to glance off bone. “Feisty little thing… your Task. I don’t think she liked me much… once she saw my soul. You know… she was the first Soul Healer I had ever met.”
A stifled grunt of pain followed the half-elf's slash; dragonsteele had a nasty tendency to cut through even DragonRage. Choking back the agony, Callan wrapped his fingers around Y'Roden's wrist before the half-elf could move away. The locked swords ground together and screeched in protest, "No...She never said a gods damned thing about you," the Emperor hissed out as his ankle slipped around Ro's and jerked. Heaving with this full half-elven weight, the dragon let go of the lighter man and landed Y'Roden flat on his back, then drove the point of the Claymore through the King's shoulder and into the sand. Fat drops of iron-laced black-red blood dripped from Callan's cut lip and lacerated ribs to his friend's bare skin.
"That's for gods damned lying to me," Callan jerked the blade back and ground his heel into Y'Roden's thigh. Through the sole of his boot several black spikes carved into Y'Roden's leg as Callan's density shifted and the pressure on Ro's thigh increased. There had only been one time he'd ever been 'incapacitated' and he knew exactly who had helped Task...and Y'Roden sure as hell hadn't been one of them.
"Keep pissing me off about Task and I may," Callan watched for the arc of the sword or dagger to flash up, "have..." still more weight, "to break you..." The Black Emperor hadn't failed to see the writhing flesh of Y'Roden D'Riel and knew damn good and well was lurked beneath his skin. So he knew how to control it...he hadn't perfected USING it yet. Indeed, the darkness lurked in them all...but it had a purpose or it would not be.
Y'Roden had to learn to twist the demon to his will, not the other way around...or Samara would own him, despite the fact she was confined in an amulet at the half-elf's throat.
“Lying?” Ro’s massive hands wrapped around Callan’s ankle and twisted, grinding the spikes in harder, but throwing him off balance. A booted foot caught the back of the Dragon’s thigh, lifting the Emperor off his feet and catapulting him forwards. The lighter gravity gave the lighter man a bit of an edge and he used it, letting momentum summersault his massive frame till the half-elf found his feet. A sharp elbow and a full body tackle had Callan in the sand.
“A woman keeps things from her husband… I call that lying. I guess you were two of a kind… you didn’t tell Task a lot of things. Like… how you had been sent to her home to kill her. She wasn’t very happy you know… I still have the scars to prove it. While we are on the subject of lying…” Several bone-white protrusions burst through Y’Roden’s wrist just before he backhanded the Emperor, laying his face open, “Omissions… outright lying… you were the one that hid Greka from me… never told me I had a son despite various opportunities to do so.”
A cloud of dust boiled up when Callan and Ro hit the ground, Callan having been the one to land flat on his back this time. For several precious seconds, the dragon shook his head to try to clear it, then began laughing at Ro. "You think I don't know how she felt? I was BONDED TO HER for two thousand years! And DO you think TASK is the only mark that walked away from me? Let's think about this for a minute...WHY THE HELL do you think you're here drawing breath? And yes." Callan lay still and let the blood pour down his jaw and drip into his hair and ear, "I damn sure 'helped' Greka. Besides," Callan's arrogant smirk slid into place, "Why the hell would you care about her? Would you have just married the little whore off and been Y'Roce's daddy...If I remember correctly, you already had a wife...and you can only look after so many wild oats." Black armguards began to slip around his forearms, "And you know why I did it...he was supposed to be leverage...and you were better off as a live ally to me than a dead mark. After all, there were just too damn many D'Riels for me to kill you all." Callan offered no apology for not having fessed up sooner, no offer to make things right.
The dragon's hand half-shifted to a talon curled around Ro's throat and began to squeeze while one wing dug into the sand and flipped the pair of them over.
"Now..." Black armour slid down his chest and covered his torso, "The way I see it," Callan's fist slammed into Ro's mouth, "We're even..."
“EVEN?” The skin beneath Callan’s hand turned white, hardening to the consistency of the bone it resembled, a chain reaction that flowed to his chest and arms, the sound of cracking bone nothing to do with the Dragon. Spikes erupted from the half-elf’s temples and great white and crimson wings burst from his back. A clawed hand wrapped around the Emperor’s throat, the next punch aimed for his eye.
“I let her use me as a punching bag and save your Task’s pretty ass… and therefore your life by default… and you call us EVEN? If you know so fucking much about the D’Riels, then you KNOW you permanently scarred Y’Roce by keeping him from me! Someday… someday you will know what I mean, if An’Thaya ever gives you a child.”
The half-elf suddenly subsided, “Get off me… what the hell are we doing?”
Y'Roden's swung fist hit its mark and blood poured from the split flesh around the Emperor's eye and with the fresh pain the BattleRage began sliding dangerously into uncontrollable pure Black Rage. Callan’s expression never altered with the half-elf’s physical changes; shifting was a natural thing for dragons, and it took a true surprise to get one to blink an eye at something like horns and wings.
"What I knew about D'Riel's then and D'Riel's now are two very different things. HOW LONG? How long do you think my sire would have let Greka live if I hadn't helped her?" Callan's black-scaled hand released Y'Roden's throat with a hard shove. Shuddering with the surge of chemicals flooding his brain and bloodstream, Callan levered himself to his feet and almost stumbled back before regaining his balance, even with the blessed numbing adrenaline, the Emperor was in agony. The toll these two had taken on each other was horrendous, so closely were they matched in size, skill and strength they could have easily taken each other apart one piece at a time.
Oblivious to Y’Roden’s apparent reality check, Callan wiped his swelling eye clear of the blood and continued, “Let me make one thing damn good and clear RIGHT NOW...Y’Roce wouldn’t have lived long enough to have mental scarring if I hadn’t done what I did. Oh...we’re even...we’re more gods’ damned even than you can imagine.”
A sudden ball of white heat launched from the dragon’s blood stained fingers and blasted a deep hole only inches from Ro’s head, “You want to know when it got real fun for me?” Sarcasm coloured his words and another ball of flame hit on the other side of the half-elf and sprayed him with grains of golden sand stained nearly black, “What do you think Nargus did when he realized I hadn’t followed through? I spent time in the GODS DAMNED GARDENS because you AND your son live and breathe now.”
White flames exploded one more time, this time launched directly at Ro’s chest. He’d get around to thanking Y’Roden later for being there for Task...maybe. If they both lived...
The half-elf rolled, sure he was clear, forgetting the wings that came with his Demonic form. Flames exploded into the centre of one appendage, burning a hole clear through and bringing a howl of enraged pain from the started King of S’Hea. “Gods dammit! Fine, we are even, how the hell was I suppose to know? Now back the hell off!”
The Patriarch latched onto the Web, grasping the thread that linked him to Callan and tugged hard, sending it back lashing into the Dragon’s soul. Agony laced through his own systems, his voice hoarse from the pressure his friend had been exerting on it. “Get a hold of yourself!”
Therein was the difference between the two. No matter how far gone he had been in the past, Ro had never been able to kill anyone he cared about. The Demon’s madness had led to blood and pain, chaos and destruction, but it had always stopped short of ending the life of someone Ro loved. Monumental self-control had always been the key to regaining his senses, it was the reason Galain, Ghetsuhm, Task and others still lived.
This was his friend… his sister’s husband… Y’Roden had known Callan for centuries, and was well aware of his penchant to get lost in the battle rage. If they kept going, they would kill one another… The Dragon’s blood boiled, Aethyr coursing and burning as the chestnut-haired elf lurched to his feet, intent on using the blood-bond to subdue the Emperor.
Searing-white heat exploded in Callan's veins...the Emperor had, for a moment, started to let his conduit slide open. The yawning black place at the core of his soul had only begun to spiral open when Y'Roden snapped the web. DragonFire had begun to form once more in the palm of his hand once he realized he'd only wounded the Patriarch, but the excruciating agony that rocked his system brought him to his knees with a spray of sand and a bellow of fury and misery. The blazing orb of flame went high and wide of Y'Roden, slammed into the stands. Wood and steel vaporized with the impact, leaving nothing but a burning, gaping hole behind in the newly rebuilt seats.
Howling with pain and unrestrained Rage, Callan tried once more to rise to his feet, only to find himself gripped at the ankles by a set of massive, claw-like hands rising from the sand. Bellowing and cursing, Callan drew heat into his fingers once more, but Sha'Tris had seen enough.
Golden tendrils of power illuminated the sand directly beneath the enRaged dragon and the loose soil erupted in a shower of grit. From the floor of the Pit, two more hands shot up; fingers wrapped around Callan's wrists and suddenly jerked him face down on the ground, leaving him to heave and writhe to get free.
"Well done..." Sha'tris laughed softly and caressed Y'Roden's blood-smeared shoulder as she stepped up behind him. "You have a spectacular gift, apparently, Y'Roden D'Riel. I don't think he's been this enRaged since the Madness took him."
More roars of frustration and profanities came from the Emperor as the form of Sha'tris stepped around Y'Roden and squatted down, wrapped her arms around her knees and peered at Callan. At her feet, the sand shifted and seemed to creep around her ankles and up her legs, giving the appearance of skirts pooling on the floor of the Pit.
"You would do well to heed your own advice, Araxmarr...you've forgotten who you truly are...whereas your friend has not."
"FUCK YOU!" Glowing-topaz eyes rolled up to Sha'tris' face just before Callan spat a mouthful of blood on her arm and began struggling against his bonds once more.
"He'll cool off in time, Ro..." Sha'Tris brushed the blood and spit off her arm with one hand. The bloodstained grains flaked off in a gentle shower of gold. "Until then, I recommend you stay at least out of arms reach."
The grains continued to flake away until nothing remained but the Dragon, the Demon-elf and the sounds of the Keep.
Y’Roden snorted in response to Sha’Tris, then sat down heavily in the sand, though well out of Callan’s reach. Crimson eyes slid shut and the Demon-elf turned his face up to the sun, ignoring the thrashing Dragon Emperor for the moment as he sought out the peace and sense of calm that would reverse the physical changes.
“I have no idea which one of you I am going to beat the hell out of first.” The voice, rife with anger, belonged to An’Thaya Blackthorn. The diminutive woman stalked across the sands like an enraged panther. “Y’Roden… good gods… What the hell? You’ve torn each other to… ugh! Go home! Gods dammit Callan stop thrashing!”
Emerald eyes cracked open and the half-elf eyed his little sister with something close to amusement. “We were just talking,” he insisted, “and working out a little tension.”
“Right… keep it up and I’ll work out some tension of my own.” Approaching her brother Tay leaned down and poked a finger in the open wound on his shoulder, ignoring his yowl of protest. “Oh please… don’t give me that. Holy hells… what happened to your back? Callan! I said knock it off!” The Amazon sighed in exasperation, “Look… I’d heal you… but I can’t right now. You are on your own bucko.”
“What do you mean you can’t…” Ro paused, his mouth hanging open until Tay tapped him under the chin none to gently and shut it.
With a low growl she turned around and glared at her husband. “If you don’t stop doing that to the sand… I’m going to become profoundly jealous in a minute.”
Gradually, Callan's Rage began to slide away; fingers that had dug deep into the sand slowly began to relax. Topaz eyes still glowed softly as his head turned to look at Tay then Y'Roden.
"She can't..." The Emperor's eyes rolled shut and ragged breaths interrupted him and for several moments, he simply lay still. Finally, wincing with pain as the split skin around his left eye began to bleed again, he looked at Ro again. "She can't heal you." More harsh breathing stirred the sand near his nostrils slightly, "You said IF Tay ever gives me a child...she already has."
The last of his Rage seemed to melt with those last three words. The sound of her voice alone had been the catalyst to halting the fury; the reminder that she carried his son had done the final snuffing of it. The Rage-born light behind his eyes slowly flickered and died...and with its demise, the Pit released him.
"Tension...we were just working out some tension...honestly Tay." The dragon coughed painfully several times then rolled over to stare up at the sapphire blue sky. Eventually, topaz eyes cut sideways at the stunned Y'Roden, "Nice wings by the way..."
“Erm… thanks,” Ro muttered, “Well… they were nice wings… one is a little… well yeah. Uhm,” the King stared at his sister, “Congratulations.”
“D'Anke,” Tay’s tone was slightly more gentle and she ruffled her brother’s sweaty hair before moving over to stand above Callan. “Mmmhmm? Tension over what?” Crouching down beside the Dragon she touched his face, “Good gods… you had better be intending on fixing this Y’Roden D’Riel. You tear it, you fix it. That goes for you too Ol’Shann. Silverthorn sees that and she’ll bloody well kill Ro… and then come after you. I’d really rather our child had a Father… thank you. Now… who is going to tell me what this was all about?”
Ro winced at the mention of Thorn and wiped at his face, “I honestly just came to blow off some steam, it wasn’t serious. Ghet asked me to speak with Callan about … things.”
Emerald eyes met their mirror image as Tay looked up and a delicate crimson eyebrow rose. “I had wondered when that would come up. She does know he won’t tell anyone… yes? No matter what has happened, or will happen, none of us want to see Rhagi hurt.”
The half-elf nodded and leaned back on his palms, letting his head fall back as he drew several cleansing breaths. “Yes… she just thought it would be better if the truth came from me. So… is it a niece or a nephew?”
“Well, I can’t disagree with her there,” Tay murmured, smiling wryly down at her husband before she answered Ro, “nephew.”
"Aye...a nephew..." Callan rolled into a sitting position and winced as the blood rushed to his head. "Damn...this is going to hurt later...hell. It hurts now."
Bloody, dirty fingers touched his swollen lip gingerly, then the shredded flesh on his cheek, which now had sand caked over the wounds.
"I had no intentions of saying anything, to anyone. That is your business, Ro." Callan lumbered to his feet and swayed for minute as he focused on the line between the sand and stone walls of the pit to regain his balance.
"But...I'm wondering..." Callan staggered over to his friend and collapsed next to him on the sand.
"If by trying so hard to protect Rhagi from the truth NOW, you're not setting up for everything else to crumble and him find out later on his own."
Callan eased down to lie on his back and poked Ro with the elbow of one wing, "We're a prime example of the damage omissions can do over time...."
A soft laugh came out of the Emperor, "Task used YOU for a punching bag? Really?" that was followed by "Ow...OW...oooh gods...it hurts when I laugh..."
“That had occurred to me,” Ro murmured, “but it isn’t the sort of thing the mind of a child can handle. Not exactly something I want generally known either, nor does Ghet.” Tilting his head the half-elf snorted at the Dragon Emperor, “Well, she wasn’t exactly herself at the time, and I wouldn’t ever mention to Mel that her nose is slightly crooked.”
It was An’Thaya’s turn to laugh, a slightly hiccupping giggle that made her eyes pop wide for a moment until she was sure it was just the one. “You’re awful, and Mel’s nose is not crooked… is it?”
Y’Roden merely shot an impish look at his sister and grinned. Poor Mel was going to wonder why Callan and Tay were staring so hard at her next time they ran into one another. “Anyway… I should get going, Arianne is waiting for me. I think I just… need a minute.” Flopping back on the hot sand Ro closed his eyes and sighed… “Ow…”
“I’d recommend some serious healing and maybe a bath first,” Tay suggested. “Idiots…” Settling down into the sand beside Callan she traced small fingers through the golden grains… waiting while the two men rested. The Amazon was patient; she’d wait till her husband was all patched up before she beat the tar out of him.
"How old IS Rhagi now?" Callan cracked an eye open and stared up at the sky, then rolled it toward Ro, "The reason I ask is, you'd be surprised how fast kids figure things out on their own...and Rhagi strikes me as exceptionally bright and devious..." Callan lay there a bit longer, then rolled over onto his belly and levered himself off the sand with a grunt of pain and stiffening muscles, "Its really NOT my business, Y'Roden, but children can accept big things better, early. I think anyway. There's an...innocence there...that allows them to understand without prejudice."
Callan wavered on his feet and black wings flared to offset his balance, "Look at Robin... or your own B'Roden. They know what I am, I can't imagine you or Shady not warning them."
The Emperor paused and leaned over a bit, put his palms on his thighs and took several deep breaths, "Go see your wife, Ro...and the best I can tell you is, I'll keep my silence, but think about how destructive it will be...and who are you REALLY afraid of hurting? You? Or Rhagi? 'Cause sooner or later, as long lived as we all are, its going to come out...and if you wait till he's grown, Rhagi may not handle it as well then as he could now. Best to work with the blade while the metal's hot and malleable...then wait till its polished and sheathed, THEN try to shape it..."
It was possible, at this point, the Dragon was rambling due to exhaustion and blood loss...highly possible. And he suspected Tay was going to try to finish what Ro hadn't...
“Not old enough,” Ro muttered, “I can’t… Ghet can’t. Can you imagine what this is like for her? Even if I wanted to tell him, I couldn’t do that to her… I’ve done enough damage.”
“Sit down before you fall down,” Tay sighed and poked her husband. “I’m forced to agree with Ro on this one. I was there… I saw Ghet…” The redhead cut herself off and bit her lip. She could relate to what the other woman was going through, had gone through. The Amazon had been there… had her pride and sanity ripped away, her fears exposed. It was one of the most frightening and degrading things that could happen to a woman.
The King of S’Hea studied his sister for a moment. There were things she hid from him, which was fine… he didn’t expect to know everything about her. There was obvious haunting pain there however, though it faded when her gaze shifted to Callan.
The edge of Ro’s lip twitched and he sighed. “Alright… I’m going into find a Silver and a bath before I head back to Whispin. D'Anke… both of you… and erm… sorry about … that, and… that,” he muttered as he passed Callan and gestured towards several nasty wounds.
“Yeah right,” Tay chuckled, “neither of you are sorry, so don’t bother pretending.” Watching her brother’s back the Amazon shook her head, then slid in under Callan’s arm. “You are a mess… and… just what were you doing to the sand?”
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