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runicloreNo Moment to Forget
Author: Amber Michelle
Fandom: Fire Emblem 9/10
Words: 4496
Characters/Pairing: Lehran
Warnings: part three might be traumatizing.
Rating: T
Notes: written for Xirysa's senses challenge. Five Lehran pairings, five senses, and one shot. :D
Edited (twice!) on 10.27.08.
......................................................
1: phantom pain
Lehran could never let Altina bathe alone. He need only remember the thick cord of her hair in his hands when it was braided and put up to keep dry, or the water sluicing from the twilight-colored length when she stood to wring it out, and a whisper, an echo of the old desire to touch it made his fingers twitch, even centuries later. He combed it with his fingers every day, braided it with his own hands, pinned it for every function. The strands were fine and elastic when they twined around his fingers, and reminded him of the pale, refined thread they made in Serenes, or the twisted strands of a silken tassel. It was heavy like that, a curtain that clung to the swell of her hips and the stretch of her legs.
Someone asked once why he would marry a human when the females of his tribe were more beautiful, and not given to dying or aging over short intervals of time. What was the point? Why bond with something that would crumble to ash in a hundred years?
Altina was strong - stronger than Lehran would ever be. There was no metaphor to describe the way her skin gave beneath his hands, how her muscles corded and tensed when he touched her the right way, in the right places, and yet never distorted her feminine shape. He wanted it. Having her was the same thing.
Time had faded his memories of her other attributes; the texture of her skin, the sound of her voice, the expressions he once loved to see flit over her face. He remembered how easily she could swing any sword, how it seemed he ran his fingers over a surface hard as rock when she saved his life during the last battle against Yune, flinging her arm around his waist and leaping before an axe could lodge into his back. Her arms, her back, her legs, solid enough to match Soan in a test of strength - how could he not touch her?
When he left Altina and his daughter, Lehran felt as if he left a part of his body in Begnion with them, and when he learned she remarried his fingertips burned at the memory of skin under his hands. He couldn't decide if he wanted to touch her again or forget altogether.
.
2: heart note
The Begnion Lehran left eight hundred years ago was no more when he came out of seclusion. Altina's creation had been replaced by a construct of lies and prejudice. The enslavement of laguz was a bitter draught, proof of how wrong he was to abandon his family to dwell on his own misfortune; it was not his brothers in chains - if he could still call them such - but the half-blooded children who clenched their fists around his heart. Children like his own daughter might have been, centuries ago-- if only they knew. They shrank from his outstretched hand or slapped it away, refused his mercy. He wondered even now if their response would have been different if he'd shown his wings, but to do so would be to endanger himself, and what sensible human in Begnion would listen to an argument for equal rights from a laguz?
Zelgius was the first to recognize his nature. Their meeting was a flurry of sensation: white snow and its icy, dusty scent, then the smell of charcoal burning in iron braziers in the military keep, woodsmoke and bread, then oil, leather, and armor. The brand revealed on the commander's back, like an intricate brush painting, invited his fingers to touch, but Lehran resisted. The so-called mark of blasphemy was actually quite beautiful. He suspected Zelgius did not know how to answer that claim when it was met with stunned silence. They never spoke of it again.
The young commander reminded Lehran of his wife because his scent was metallic, the plate armor ever-present. When he did not wear metal he wore hardened leather, the straps and buckles trying on heron fingers, but not enough to discourage. Zelgius would seek his throat or the spot behind his ear, breathe deeply. You smell like the forest, he said once, like pine and lily, and sweet grass. If that hadn't given him away, he was told, the fine frame of his bones would have done so. I know what you are. Lehran began to understand the wariness the Branded met him with when Zelgius uttered those words.
Begnion's racial rhetoric was deceptively simple; laguz were not simply closer to their instincts, they were in fact animals, masquerading in human skin. Nothing more. Beorc were no less enslaved to their bodies, but they were better at philosophizing and more dedicated to twisting academics to their cause. It sounded so reasonable at times; that case from Persis, the tiger that killed seven townspeople when he thought his family threatened - that was the reaction of a cornered animal. More civilized beings would have dealt with the situation rationally.
Yet-- to what place should reason be assigned when one is threatened, when one feels the edge of a knife at one's throat?
Lehran found a place for himself in Begnion, and his companion continued the search for the Apostle he was sure now would never be found. Zelgius returned on occasion to keep him abreast of his progress, and sometimes to take command of the forces mustered to keep the peace in the remote areas of Persis, where the government had lost control after the former Apostle's fall.
He returned unscathed, as always, and in that way too he was like Altina. Invulnerable, unmovable. Beneath the scents of metal and dry leather were soap and skin, and though avians were better known for their sharp eyes and ears, Lehran noted a hint of floral in the folds of his cloak and he froze for a second, maybe two, before he threw the weight of his body into ripping it from Zelgius's shoulders. Then the words came - words in his native tongue, asking why and where, and he could have had the decency to leave the evidence behind--
It was not what he thought, of course. Reason returned to him with the modern tongue, but the memory remained between them, that hint of rose and cream.
Perhaps, Lehran mused later, the humans were right. He need only look at his own history to see himself branded with animal weakness.
.
3: like midnight
In time Lehran became Sephiran, a young senator from the far eastern reach of Persis - so far away from the capitol it was virtually unknown, just a spot on the map past the border of a desert nobody in Begnion had bothered to examine. He isn't provincial at all, they said. It's so hard to believe elegance and beauty like his escaped the desert unscathed. He was accustomed to such nonsense; it followed herons wherever they decided to walk before they were murdered. They were mystic, ethereal, gods in flesh. Seducers.
Beware his beguiling smile was the warning he enjoyed most. Was a mere smile that powerful? One of our prominents heaped a fortune on his shoulders-- you know what must have gone on-- If only they knew he could hear every whisper that followed him in the cathedral's corridors. He could only thank Ashera they did not, in fact, know anything.
His 'beguiling smile' inspired Duke Tanas to take a liking to his problematic causes, Sephiran thought when he was persuaded to meet his superior for tea. The Tanas city manor was opulent in the worst sense of the word; the marble floors were polished to mirror perfection, and the pillars carved with vines and trefoil leaves. Painted vases ornamented every table, arranged with porcelain sculptures of birds or mermaids, and paintings adored every wall in gilded frames. He was relieved to enter the drawing room and find the walls almost bare. An ancient tapestry depicting the goddess's birth hung on the far wall - a heron piece, and the singed edge told him all he needed to know about its acquisition.
The pot was crystal, and their tea bloomed into a red chrysanthemum. It was served with shortbread colored red, yellow, and brown, each piece shaped to resemble autumn maple leaves. It was just sweet enough to compliment the tea, and when Oliver excused himself for a moment to take care of some important matter, Sephiran took another with him to the window and admitted silently that in some areas it seemed the Duke had refined sensibility after all.
You must understand, Oliver said when he returned, taking Sephiran's hand between his own. Even with my support you will be in a difficult position with such a bill. Nobody cared for laguz causes, of course. He knew this, yet he was obligated to try; if he found even one virtuous senator, or perhaps two or three, it could make the difference between life and judgment for these people. He'd thought Tanas might be convinced by an appeal to his desire for beauty and novelty, but the press of warm gold rings against his skin made him think otherwise. Money, not beauty, was lord in this house. I understand completely, Duke Tanas, Sephiran said, pulling his hand back. I appreciate your time--
Oliver begged him to wait. Did you know, he said, we saved a great blue from the Massacre and tried to care for her wounds. Her burns were healed, but just when it seemed she might fly away-- she died. Wilted like a flower. Her hair was like midnight. The duke's fingers, still thin enough to retain some grace at that time, combed into Sephiran's hair and pulled a strand over his shoulder. You bear a strong resemblance to her.
He stuttered and looked away, his fingers chill and stiff. What nonsense. He tried to say so, tried to deny it - as if a mere human could compare to the mystic beauty of a heron, and Sephiran was quite human, quite - until the duke silenced him, stilling his lips with his fingers, and said, Perhaps the cause will be easier to bear if you remain with me tonight--
Blood rushed to Sephiran's face before he could school his expression. Goddess no, he would never-- it wasn't that important to him-- was it?
No.
Yet those of slave lineage would benefit from institutionally funded relocation--
No.
And to have the ear and favor of a senior councilman--
Sephiran wished he could wilt like the duke's captive heron. Goddess help me.
.
4: fair punishment
Twenty-five years after the massacre of his clan, Sephiran's desire to awaken the goddess's judgment yielded results. He was at the top of her tower when she opened her eyes, he heard the rhythm of her breathing change and break, and the slither of silk and hair when she sat up and found him waiting at the foot of her dais on bent knee. Ashera was just as he remembered - the symmetry of her face was unchanged, and the crimson in her eyes, and her hair fanned over her shoulders like Sanaki's often did, pooling around her hips in hues of dawn.
What misfortune has befallen you? Her aura pulsed, curled around his ankle, and his hand on the floor, wrapped around his staff. He thought her lips turned down. What have you become?
A heron without the ability to sing was useless; a laguz without the ability to transform was not laguz. He was an aberration. Did she remember her blessing on his union with Altina? Their love would be their strength, she said, and heal the rift between the two races. Her voice echoed in his memory the morning he woke to find himself diminished, less than laguz and not quite human. Sephiran learned to love irony out of necessity.
The silence stretched. His brief explanation fell flat, as if he hadn't inflected his words, and perhaps he'd forgotten. Tonality was integral to the use of his native language, but Sephiran had learned to be human during his time in Begnion, and the two were believed to be mutually exclusive.
So I was left in silence.
He lowered his gaze. Yes.
Her pale face remained blank. Tell me what happened while I slept.
If Ashera was displeased, he would never know. She cast Yune from her body to rid herself of emotion; there were flickers of anger or sadness in the beginning, when they were newly separated. Her mind remembered the reflex, the contraction of the body that accompanied pain and the drop in the stomach that accompanied joy, but her reactions were incomplete. Eight hundred years of sleep must have deprived her even of that, for she said lead my song, Lehran and didn't bat an eyelash when he sank completely to the floor and begged her, anything but that. Anything--
Sing.
Ashera never demanded more than her servants were capable of. Lehran had a voice, he knew the notes and words. The dirge of destruction was his to keep - his creation - but she was his goddess. What need did she have of his accompaniment now?
Her voice joined with his, and the marble beneath Lehran's feet trembled. He closed his eyes against the flare of Ashera's aura. Her tone, her inflection of certain syllables, and her pitch reminded him of the demands of another mistress, a kinder one, of golden eyes and indigo hair.
Was she safe? Would she live? Would Ashera spare her, if he asked? Lehran was a faithful servant, a sentimental creature, and he'd always done as she commanded. One request, one wish, surely that was little enough after centuries of service.
Sanaki would never ask him to sing in Ashera's place. She would have looked for some other way to accomplish her objective, or perhaps voiced the melody herself, as she already knew the words - he'd entrusted her with many of his songs in the guise of fairy stories and hymns, though she couldn't use them. Her sweet voice would calm his tears, and her head would rest over his heart while she reassured him. It doesn't matter, she would say. I don't like singing anyway.
.
5: first and last
Of all the places to meet his empress again after the war, Lehran found her in Persis when he returned for one of his old projects, on the third floor of his dusty library, draped over a book at a desk in the back corner. When Sanaki jolted awake at his urging, she mistook him for Naesala - perhaps it was the wings, the quality of light in the library, the perpetual fog of dust. He frowned before he could stop himself, while she blinked up at him and rubbed sleep from the corner of her eye. How unlike him to set foot in a place of learning, he said, and turned his back on her, walking away before she could summon a coherent reply.
Why would Naesala join her there - or anywhere?
Silly question; he knew why. He knew--
The book he wanted wasn't in the archive. Lehran went to the rooms that used to be his, and found her cloak draped over a chair, and the chest she traveled with at the foot of his bed. A leather-bound journal and her writing box were on the desk in his study. Of course they would house her there; no less than the duke's quarters would be good enough for the empress,. Everything appeared well-taken care of, though perhaps they'd let it all fall into disrepair until she notified the household of her visit; the shelves were clean, for instance, but the volumes themselves were musty, and he set himself to sneezing when he snapped one closed and breathed a mouthful of dust. It coated his tongue like ash, and he wished he could spit it out. He spread his wings to clear the air.
The sound of the door clicking shut made him freeze.
"I can't accuse you of intruding, I suppose." Her voice came from behind him; her footsteps halted a little distance away, perhaps on the other side of his desk. He must have missed the echo of her entrance in the other room. "Since you're here, I can yell at you directly."
Lehran folded his wings slowly and slid the book into its place. "I'm not sure I agree, empress. Your lips formed the insult, after all."
Her arms were crossed when he turned around. She leaned on the edge of his desk, and the ornaments dangling from her hairsticks jingled when she glanced away. "What do you object to - being mistaken for a raven? Or is it my private association with him?" Sanaki's eyebrows lifted. "It had better be the former."
"His continued association with you is part of his job," Lehran said, leaving the shelf, tracing the carved edge of the desk. Her hair must have been as long as she was tall, to loop and drape over the knot she'd made around the sticks. He hooked his fingers under the wood, his other hand fisted in his coat. "It would be unhealthy for him and selfish of you to take it any further."
Her eyes narrowed. "That is none of your business."
"It is." Though she was taller than he remembered, Lehran still had to look down at her when he moved closer. He watched her shift to step away, then stiffen her spine and stand her ground. "Naesala has other obligations. He gave his freedom up--"
Sanaki slapped her hand onto the desktop. "It isn't his freedom I'm concerned with," she said. "You have no say--"
"These are my rooms." Lehran took hold of her hand and leaned in close, forcing her to tilt her head back, and repeated: mine. He wasn't her guardian any longer, nor was she required to take his advice - but Kilvas? No. Not for Sanaki. Never. If the raven set foot in this part of the manor, he would answer for it later when she would be unable to protest. "You may find another house to conduct your affairs in. If anybody takes you here, my empress," Lehran said with his head bowed, forcing her to keep her eyes on him, "it will be me."
What possessed him to give that voice, Lehran could not say. He watched color rise in her cheeks one moment, two, until Sanaki's face was a lovely shade of rose and her mouth worked to form a retort that didn't come. Perhaps he was wrong to assume she was involved in such things, but she hadn't denied his accusation. How was he to know? He straightened quickly, let go of her hand. She turned her face away, and the pearl clusters hanging from her hairsticks swung and clicked together. He could almost taste her perfume, a mix of exotic woods and cinnamon, the spice coating his tongue as the dust did a moment ago.
Perhaps he should leave. Another book could be written, in time. He knew his own songs, and at worst, if necessity required him to pass them on to the younger generation by singing--
He stepped around her and strode toward the door. There weren't many places he could stay in Persis without drawing attention to himself, but the flight back to Serenes was too long; he would find something else, perhaps in the cliffs by the bay, where he could stay safely until morning.
"Just a moment," Sanaki said sharply. He paused, looked back. Her face was still pink, but her lips were set firmly in a straight line. "I didn't give you permission to leave."
Just as she was free of his authority, Lehran did not have to heed her command in such a mundane matter - but if he left, Naesala might join her instead, and he wouldn't allow a raven - especially that one - to steal her attention from him.
Instead of winging to the river he followed Sanaki into the other room and sat down at the table he used for breakfast and tea when she was small, adjusting his wings to fit the chair, and watching her speak to someone outside. Her skirt was shaped to follow the curve of her legs and flare at the bottom; he watched her walk back to sit across from him, and the shimmering white folded around her ankles on the floor.
A servant arrived with a pitcher of pomegranate juice and two glasses half-full with crushed ice. He waited for her to arrange it with his fingers locked around the arms of his chair, though he couldn't miss the way her hands shook when she glanced at him. One of the older servants, perhaps, though he didn't remember her face. She left with a hurried curtsy to the empress, and Lehran leaned forward to fill Sanaki's glass before she could move.
The juice was tart, sweetened with cane and honey for their nuance, flavored with rose petals. It was her favorite, and she sipped it slowly, drawing him into a discussion about Tanas - the last person he wanted to talk about, which was perhaps why she did it. Oliver had styled himself a patron of the arts, and he begged her for permission to spend time in the archives at Persis and search for relevant texts, so she had come first to conduct her own investigation. I wasn't about to hand your things over to him, she said, watching him over the lip of her glass.
Her memories lingered here with his, on the wide walkways in the garden, the tiled corridors inside, and even in this room, where she fled when she felt lonely or abandoned. That she even considered letting Oliver in to see it, any of it, soured the flavor of his drink.
"I found a book of galdrar," she said, setting her empty glass on the table. "That must be what you're here for. It's unfinished."
Lehran stared at the dark red swirling at the bottom of his glass, where the syrup had separated from the rosewater and settled. "I was interrupted."
Sanaki rose and crossed the room to her travel chest, where she knelt and pushed it open. He caught sight of the green cover just before she got up, met her halfway, hands clasped firmly at his back. She held it to her chest. "You used to write in this all the time. Every night."
He watched the gilded pages glint when she hugged it more tightly against her breasts and the curve at her neckline swelled. "Do you remember how to read it?"
"Of course." Sanaki was biting her lip when he lifted his gaze. Her lips curved up despite her effort. "That would be why I came to find it."
Lehran lifted his chin. "So you won't give it to me."
"We can share."
He closed the distance between them. "Isn't that a little inconvenient for me?"
She pulled the book out of his reach, behind her back. "I can't be held responsible for your choice of residence."
"I suppose that's true. All you told me was to 'get out.'" Lehran bent down. She wasn't practiced at all, couldn't keep her reactions under control as he thought she would; her face flushed again, white to pink, mouth red from the juice and the rush of blood, and he felt the tremor in her arms when he held her around the waist and leaned in to taste her lips. Sugar lingered at the corner of her mouth, and a flare of tart syrup when her lips parted and he ran his tongue over her teeth. Her arms relaxed. He snatched the book away and laughed when her eyes flew open and she jerked back with a protest. "What were you expecting Naesala for?" he asked when she opened her mouth.
Sanaki's eyes narrowed. He wouldn't let her move, so she glanced at the window and worked her manicured nails into the fabric of his sleeve.
"How stubborn." He spread his wings and curved them around her. "Tell me." The skin behind her ear was slightly bitter where she applied her perfume, lancing his tongue with a sudden bite of cinnamon. He worked the skin between his teeth and felt her voice vibrate against his lips. "Tell me--"
"You." Sanaki yanked on his coat and he straightened. She met him with a glare. "Do you realize how long you've been gone? And he told me you'd be a 'possessive bastard' if you came back. I think he might be right."
Lehran closed his wings and folded them against his back. Where did the raven get that idea? "I don't share."
"I'm not asking you to." Her glare melted into a frown. "Though I dislike the implication."
He rubbed the mark on her throat. It was darkening to red, it would show, he'd been careless-- Tanith would kill him, for the mark or his continued existence. Maybe she would give him a choice. "I don't see it that way."
She took the book and dropped it into her trunk. "I think you have better things to do with those hands, Lehran."
"All of the sudden--"
Sanaki clapped a hand over his mouth. "I saw where you were looking." She traced his lips, smiling faintly when they thinned. "There are better things you can do with this, too-- since you're here."
Lehran hadn't taught her to be ashamed of her body or its needs, as some beorc did to their children. It would have been cruel when she could not afford to attach herself to any single person or family. The balance of power between nobles in Begnion - such as it was - tipped often enough without the favor of the empress weighing the scales one way or another. He had not taught her to be so direct either, and he wasn't quite sure what to say.
However, since she was offering-- "Of course, my lady."
........................................................................
There were a few things I was hoping to touch on with this story, but I'm not sure that worked, and I don't have time to sit on it. Too much homework to do.
Ashera's part is my least favorite. Oliver's was the hardest. Sanaki's ran away from me, which probably doesn't surprise anyone.
Author: Amber Michelle
Fandom: Fire Emblem 9/10
Words: 4496
Characters/Pairing: Lehran
Warnings: part three might be traumatizing.
Rating: T
Notes: written for Xirysa's senses challenge. Five Lehran pairings, five senses, and one shot. :D
Edited (twice!) on 10.27.08.
......................................................
1: phantom pain
Lehran could never let Altina bathe alone. He need only remember the thick cord of her hair in his hands when it was braided and put up to keep dry, or the water sluicing from the twilight-colored length when she stood to wring it out, and a whisper, an echo of the old desire to touch it made his fingers twitch, even centuries later. He combed it with his fingers every day, braided it with his own hands, pinned it for every function. The strands were fine and elastic when they twined around his fingers, and reminded him of the pale, refined thread they made in Serenes, or the twisted strands of a silken tassel. It was heavy like that, a curtain that clung to the swell of her hips and the stretch of her legs.
Someone asked once why he would marry a human when the females of his tribe were more beautiful, and not given to dying or aging over short intervals of time. What was the point? Why bond with something that would crumble to ash in a hundred years?
Altina was strong - stronger than Lehran would ever be. There was no metaphor to describe the way her skin gave beneath his hands, how her muscles corded and tensed when he touched her the right way, in the right places, and yet never distorted her feminine shape. He wanted it. Having her was the same thing.
Time had faded his memories of her other attributes; the texture of her skin, the sound of her voice, the expressions he once loved to see flit over her face. He remembered how easily she could swing any sword, how it seemed he ran his fingers over a surface hard as rock when she saved his life during the last battle against Yune, flinging her arm around his waist and leaping before an axe could lodge into his back. Her arms, her back, her legs, solid enough to match Soan in a test of strength - how could he not touch her?
When he left Altina and his daughter, Lehran felt as if he left a part of his body in Begnion with them, and when he learned she remarried his fingertips burned at the memory of skin under his hands. He couldn't decide if he wanted to touch her again or forget altogether.
.
2: heart note
The Begnion Lehran left eight hundred years ago was no more when he came out of seclusion. Altina's creation had been replaced by a construct of lies and prejudice. The enslavement of laguz was a bitter draught, proof of how wrong he was to abandon his family to dwell on his own misfortune; it was not his brothers in chains - if he could still call them such - but the half-blooded children who clenched their fists around his heart. Children like his own daughter might have been, centuries ago-- if only they knew. They shrank from his outstretched hand or slapped it away, refused his mercy. He wondered even now if their response would have been different if he'd shown his wings, but to do so would be to endanger himself, and what sensible human in Begnion would listen to an argument for equal rights from a laguz?
Zelgius was the first to recognize his nature. Their meeting was a flurry of sensation: white snow and its icy, dusty scent, then the smell of charcoal burning in iron braziers in the military keep, woodsmoke and bread, then oil, leather, and armor. The brand revealed on the commander's back, like an intricate brush painting, invited his fingers to touch, but Lehran resisted. The so-called mark of blasphemy was actually quite beautiful. He suspected Zelgius did not know how to answer that claim when it was met with stunned silence. They never spoke of it again.
The young commander reminded Lehran of his wife because his scent was metallic, the plate armor ever-present. When he did not wear metal he wore hardened leather, the straps and buckles trying on heron fingers, but not enough to discourage. Zelgius would seek his throat or the spot behind his ear, breathe deeply. You smell like the forest, he said once, like pine and lily, and sweet grass. If that hadn't given him away, he was told, the fine frame of his bones would have done so. I know what you are. Lehran began to understand the wariness the Branded met him with when Zelgius uttered those words.
Begnion's racial rhetoric was deceptively simple; laguz were not simply closer to their instincts, they were in fact animals, masquerading in human skin. Nothing more. Beorc were no less enslaved to their bodies, but they were better at philosophizing and more dedicated to twisting academics to their cause. It sounded so reasonable at times; that case from Persis, the tiger that killed seven townspeople when he thought his family threatened - that was the reaction of a cornered animal. More civilized beings would have dealt with the situation rationally.
Yet-- to what place should reason be assigned when one is threatened, when one feels the edge of a knife at one's throat?
Lehran found a place for himself in Begnion, and his companion continued the search for the Apostle he was sure now would never be found. Zelgius returned on occasion to keep him abreast of his progress, and sometimes to take command of the forces mustered to keep the peace in the remote areas of Persis, where the government had lost control after the former Apostle's fall.
He returned unscathed, as always, and in that way too he was like Altina. Invulnerable, unmovable. Beneath the scents of metal and dry leather were soap and skin, and though avians were better known for their sharp eyes and ears, Lehran noted a hint of floral in the folds of his cloak and he froze for a second, maybe two, before he threw the weight of his body into ripping it from Zelgius's shoulders. Then the words came - words in his native tongue, asking why and where, and he could have had the decency to leave the evidence behind--
It was not what he thought, of course. Reason returned to him with the modern tongue, but the memory remained between them, that hint of rose and cream.
Perhaps, Lehran mused later, the humans were right. He need only look at his own history to see himself branded with animal weakness.
.
3: like midnight
In time Lehran became Sephiran, a young senator from the far eastern reach of Persis - so far away from the capitol it was virtually unknown, just a spot on the map past the border of a desert nobody in Begnion had bothered to examine. He isn't provincial at all, they said. It's so hard to believe elegance and beauty like his escaped the desert unscathed. He was accustomed to such nonsense; it followed herons wherever they decided to walk before they were murdered. They were mystic, ethereal, gods in flesh. Seducers.
Beware his beguiling smile was the warning he enjoyed most. Was a mere smile that powerful? One of our prominents heaped a fortune on his shoulders-- you know what must have gone on-- If only they knew he could hear every whisper that followed him in the cathedral's corridors. He could only thank Ashera they did not, in fact, know anything.
His 'beguiling smile' inspired Duke Tanas to take a liking to his problematic causes, Sephiran thought when he was persuaded to meet his superior for tea. The Tanas city manor was opulent in the worst sense of the word; the marble floors were polished to mirror perfection, and the pillars carved with vines and trefoil leaves. Painted vases ornamented every table, arranged with porcelain sculptures of birds or mermaids, and paintings adored every wall in gilded frames. He was relieved to enter the drawing room and find the walls almost bare. An ancient tapestry depicting the goddess's birth hung on the far wall - a heron piece, and the singed edge told him all he needed to know about its acquisition.
The pot was crystal, and their tea bloomed into a red chrysanthemum. It was served with shortbread colored red, yellow, and brown, each piece shaped to resemble autumn maple leaves. It was just sweet enough to compliment the tea, and when Oliver excused himself for a moment to take care of some important matter, Sephiran took another with him to the window and admitted silently that in some areas it seemed the Duke had refined sensibility after all.
You must understand, Oliver said when he returned, taking Sephiran's hand between his own. Even with my support you will be in a difficult position with such a bill. Nobody cared for laguz causes, of course. He knew this, yet he was obligated to try; if he found even one virtuous senator, or perhaps two or three, it could make the difference between life and judgment for these people. He'd thought Tanas might be convinced by an appeal to his desire for beauty and novelty, but the press of warm gold rings against his skin made him think otherwise. Money, not beauty, was lord in this house. I understand completely, Duke Tanas, Sephiran said, pulling his hand back. I appreciate your time--
Oliver begged him to wait. Did you know, he said, we saved a great blue from the Massacre and tried to care for her wounds. Her burns were healed, but just when it seemed she might fly away-- she died. Wilted like a flower. Her hair was like midnight. The duke's fingers, still thin enough to retain some grace at that time, combed into Sephiran's hair and pulled a strand over his shoulder. You bear a strong resemblance to her.
He stuttered and looked away, his fingers chill and stiff. What nonsense. He tried to say so, tried to deny it - as if a mere human could compare to the mystic beauty of a heron, and Sephiran was quite human, quite - until the duke silenced him, stilling his lips with his fingers, and said, Perhaps the cause will be easier to bear if you remain with me tonight--
Blood rushed to Sephiran's face before he could school his expression. Goddess no, he would never-- it wasn't that important to him-- was it?
No.
Yet those of slave lineage would benefit from institutionally funded relocation--
No.
And to have the ear and favor of a senior councilman--
Sephiran wished he could wilt like the duke's captive heron. Goddess help me.
.
4: fair punishment
Twenty-five years after the massacre of his clan, Sephiran's desire to awaken the goddess's judgment yielded results. He was at the top of her tower when she opened her eyes, he heard the rhythm of her breathing change and break, and the slither of silk and hair when she sat up and found him waiting at the foot of her dais on bent knee. Ashera was just as he remembered - the symmetry of her face was unchanged, and the crimson in her eyes, and her hair fanned over her shoulders like Sanaki's often did, pooling around her hips in hues of dawn.
What misfortune has befallen you? Her aura pulsed, curled around his ankle, and his hand on the floor, wrapped around his staff. He thought her lips turned down. What have you become?
A heron without the ability to sing was useless; a laguz without the ability to transform was not laguz. He was an aberration. Did she remember her blessing on his union with Altina? Their love would be their strength, she said, and heal the rift between the two races. Her voice echoed in his memory the morning he woke to find himself diminished, less than laguz and not quite human. Sephiran learned to love irony out of necessity.
The silence stretched. His brief explanation fell flat, as if he hadn't inflected his words, and perhaps he'd forgotten. Tonality was integral to the use of his native language, but Sephiran had learned to be human during his time in Begnion, and the two were believed to be mutually exclusive.
So I was left in silence.
He lowered his gaze. Yes.
Her pale face remained blank. Tell me what happened while I slept.
If Ashera was displeased, he would never know. She cast Yune from her body to rid herself of emotion; there were flickers of anger or sadness in the beginning, when they were newly separated. Her mind remembered the reflex, the contraction of the body that accompanied pain and the drop in the stomach that accompanied joy, but her reactions were incomplete. Eight hundred years of sleep must have deprived her even of that, for she said lead my song, Lehran and didn't bat an eyelash when he sank completely to the floor and begged her, anything but that. Anything--
Sing.
Ashera never demanded more than her servants were capable of. Lehran had a voice, he knew the notes and words. The dirge of destruction was his to keep - his creation - but she was his goddess. What need did she have of his accompaniment now?
Her voice joined with his, and the marble beneath Lehran's feet trembled. He closed his eyes against the flare of Ashera's aura. Her tone, her inflection of certain syllables, and her pitch reminded him of the demands of another mistress, a kinder one, of golden eyes and indigo hair.
Was she safe? Would she live? Would Ashera spare her, if he asked? Lehran was a faithful servant, a sentimental creature, and he'd always done as she commanded. One request, one wish, surely that was little enough after centuries of service.
Sanaki would never ask him to sing in Ashera's place. She would have looked for some other way to accomplish her objective, or perhaps voiced the melody herself, as she already knew the words - he'd entrusted her with many of his songs in the guise of fairy stories and hymns, though she couldn't use them. Her sweet voice would calm his tears, and her head would rest over his heart while she reassured him. It doesn't matter, she would say. I don't like singing anyway.
.
5: first and last
Of all the places to meet his empress again after the war, Lehran found her in Persis when he returned for one of his old projects, on the third floor of his dusty library, draped over a book at a desk in the back corner. When Sanaki jolted awake at his urging, she mistook him for Naesala - perhaps it was the wings, the quality of light in the library, the perpetual fog of dust. He frowned before he could stop himself, while she blinked up at him and rubbed sleep from the corner of her eye. How unlike him to set foot in a place of learning, he said, and turned his back on her, walking away before she could summon a coherent reply.
Why would Naesala join her there - or anywhere?
Silly question; he knew why. He knew--
The book he wanted wasn't in the archive. Lehran went to the rooms that used to be his, and found her cloak draped over a chair, and the chest she traveled with at the foot of his bed. A leather-bound journal and her writing box were on the desk in his study. Of course they would house her there; no less than the duke's quarters would be good enough for the empress,. Everything appeared well-taken care of, though perhaps they'd let it all fall into disrepair until she notified the household of her visit; the shelves were clean, for instance, but the volumes themselves were musty, and he set himself to sneezing when he snapped one closed and breathed a mouthful of dust. It coated his tongue like ash, and he wished he could spit it out. He spread his wings to clear the air.
The sound of the door clicking shut made him freeze.
"I can't accuse you of intruding, I suppose." Her voice came from behind him; her footsteps halted a little distance away, perhaps on the other side of his desk. He must have missed the echo of her entrance in the other room. "Since you're here, I can yell at you directly."
Lehran folded his wings slowly and slid the book into its place. "I'm not sure I agree, empress. Your lips formed the insult, after all."
Her arms were crossed when he turned around. She leaned on the edge of his desk, and the ornaments dangling from her hairsticks jingled when she glanced away. "What do you object to - being mistaken for a raven? Or is it my private association with him?" Sanaki's eyebrows lifted. "It had better be the former."
"His continued association with you is part of his job," Lehran said, leaving the shelf, tracing the carved edge of the desk. Her hair must have been as long as she was tall, to loop and drape over the knot she'd made around the sticks. He hooked his fingers under the wood, his other hand fisted in his coat. "It would be unhealthy for him and selfish of you to take it any further."
Her eyes narrowed. "That is none of your business."
"It is." Though she was taller than he remembered, Lehran still had to look down at her when he moved closer. He watched her shift to step away, then stiffen her spine and stand her ground. "Naesala has other obligations. He gave his freedom up--"
Sanaki slapped her hand onto the desktop. "It isn't his freedom I'm concerned with," she said. "You have no say--"
"These are my rooms." Lehran took hold of her hand and leaned in close, forcing her to tilt her head back, and repeated: mine. He wasn't her guardian any longer, nor was she required to take his advice - but Kilvas? No. Not for Sanaki. Never. If the raven set foot in this part of the manor, he would answer for it later when she would be unable to protest. "You may find another house to conduct your affairs in. If anybody takes you here, my empress," Lehran said with his head bowed, forcing her to keep her eyes on him, "it will be me."
What possessed him to give that voice, Lehran could not say. He watched color rise in her cheeks one moment, two, until Sanaki's face was a lovely shade of rose and her mouth worked to form a retort that didn't come. Perhaps he was wrong to assume she was involved in such things, but she hadn't denied his accusation. How was he to know? He straightened quickly, let go of her hand. She turned her face away, and the pearl clusters hanging from her hairsticks swung and clicked together. He could almost taste her perfume, a mix of exotic woods and cinnamon, the spice coating his tongue as the dust did a moment ago.
Perhaps he should leave. Another book could be written, in time. He knew his own songs, and at worst, if necessity required him to pass them on to the younger generation by singing--
He stepped around her and strode toward the door. There weren't many places he could stay in Persis without drawing attention to himself, but the flight back to Serenes was too long; he would find something else, perhaps in the cliffs by the bay, where he could stay safely until morning.
"Just a moment," Sanaki said sharply. He paused, looked back. Her face was still pink, but her lips were set firmly in a straight line. "I didn't give you permission to leave."
Just as she was free of his authority, Lehran did not have to heed her command in such a mundane matter - but if he left, Naesala might join her instead, and he wouldn't allow a raven - especially that one - to steal her attention from him.
Instead of winging to the river he followed Sanaki into the other room and sat down at the table he used for breakfast and tea when she was small, adjusting his wings to fit the chair, and watching her speak to someone outside. Her skirt was shaped to follow the curve of her legs and flare at the bottom; he watched her walk back to sit across from him, and the shimmering white folded around her ankles on the floor.
A servant arrived with a pitcher of pomegranate juice and two glasses half-full with crushed ice. He waited for her to arrange it with his fingers locked around the arms of his chair, though he couldn't miss the way her hands shook when she glanced at him. One of the older servants, perhaps, though he didn't remember her face. She left with a hurried curtsy to the empress, and Lehran leaned forward to fill Sanaki's glass before she could move.
The juice was tart, sweetened with cane and honey for their nuance, flavored with rose petals. It was her favorite, and she sipped it slowly, drawing him into a discussion about Tanas - the last person he wanted to talk about, which was perhaps why she did it. Oliver had styled himself a patron of the arts, and he begged her for permission to spend time in the archives at Persis and search for relevant texts, so she had come first to conduct her own investigation. I wasn't about to hand your things over to him, she said, watching him over the lip of her glass.
Her memories lingered here with his, on the wide walkways in the garden, the tiled corridors inside, and even in this room, where she fled when she felt lonely or abandoned. That she even considered letting Oliver in to see it, any of it, soured the flavor of his drink.
"I found a book of galdrar," she said, setting her empty glass on the table. "That must be what you're here for. It's unfinished."
Lehran stared at the dark red swirling at the bottom of his glass, where the syrup had separated from the rosewater and settled. "I was interrupted."
Sanaki rose and crossed the room to her travel chest, where she knelt and pushed it open. He caught sight of the green cover just before she got up, met her halfway, hands clasped firmly at his back. She held it to her chest. "You used to write in this all the time. Every night."
He watched the gilded pages glint when she hugged it more tightly against her breasts and the curve at her neckline swelled. "Do you remember how to read it?"
"Of course." Sanaki was biting her lip when he lifted his gaze. Her lips curved up despite her effort. "That would be why I came to find it."
Lehran lifted his chin. "So you won't give it to me."
"We can share."
He closed the distance between them. "Isn't that a little inconvenient for me?"
She pulled the book out of his reach, behind her back. "I can't be held responsible for your choice of residence."
"I suppose that's true. All you told me was to 'get out.'" Lehran bent down. She wasn't practiced at all, couldn't keep her reactions under control as he thought she would; her face flushed again, white to pink, mouth red from the juice and the rush of blood, and he felt the tremor in her arms when he held her around the waist and leaned in to taste her lips. Sugar lingered at the corner of her mouth, and a flare of tart syrup when her lips parted and he ran his tongue over her teeth. Her arms relaxed. He snatched the book away and laughed when her eyes flew open and she jerked back with a protest. "What were you expecting Naesala for?" he asked when she opened her mouth.
Sanaki's eyes narrowed. He wouldn't let her move, so she glanced at the window and worked her manicured nails into the fabric of his sleeve.
"How stubborn." He spread his wings and curved them around her. "Tell me." The skin behind her ear was slightly bitter where she applied her perfume, lancing his tongue with a sudden bite of cinnamon. He worked the skin between his teeth and felt her voice vibrate against his lips. "Tell me--"
"You." Sanaki yanked on his coat and he straightened. She met him with a glare. "Do you realize how long you've been gone? And he told me you'd be a 'possessive bastard' if you came back. I think he might be right."
Lehran closed his wings and folded them against his back. Where did the raven get that idea? "I don't share."
"I'm not asking you to." Her glare melted into a frown. "Though I dislike the implication."
He rubbed the mark on her throat. It was darkening to red, it would show, he'd been careless-- Tanith would kill him, for the mark or his continued existence. Maybe she would give him a choice. "I don't see it that way."
She took the book and dropped it into her trunk. "I think you have better things to do with those hands, Lehran."
"All of the sudden--"
Sanaki clapped a hand over his mouth. "I saw where you were looking." She traced his lips, smiling faintly when they thinned. "There are better things you can do with this, too-- since you're here."
Lehran hadn't taught her to be ashamed of her body or its needs, as some beorc did to their children. It would have been cruel when she could not afford to attach herself to any single person or family. The balance of power between nobles in Begnion - such as it was - tipped often enough without the favor of the empress weighing the scales one way or another. He had not taught her to be so direct either, and he wasn't quite sure what to say.
However, since she was offering-- "Of course, my lady."
........................................................................
There were a few things I was hoping to touch on with this story, but I'm not sure that worked, and I don't have time to sit on it. Too much homework to do.
Ashera's part is my least favorite. Oliver's was the hardest. Sanaki's ran away from me, which probably doesn't surprise anyone.
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no subject
Date: 2008-11-04 07:45 pm (UTC)Of course that is, minus the second and the third. But my reasons for that having nothing to do with you or this text in itself don't mind it.
So... wow. I'm still amazed of the strength of First And Last.
About whatever Altina was reading (/hunting/washing/eating/dressing/killing/sleeping/awakening) while her husband was busing trying to kill himself is and seem to be destined to remain a big ("arGhhh"able) mystery. Maybe IntSys just wanted Sephiran too look like a totally misunderstood idealist. Anyway, if someday someone has an idea as the reason for Altina 's apparent uselessness I'd not refuse to hear it.
no subject
Date: 2008-11-04 09:30 pm (UTC)I'm glad you liked it. The Oliver chapter is, well... it was fun. It was also traumatizing to write.
About Altina. I wonder if she felt responsible for Lehran's loss somehow. His initial reaction was to try and kill himself, I think, and that's the kind of emotional extreme that you can't reason with. She probably stopped him, but couldn't say anything that would make it better - because of course there's nothing you can say. Nobody knew at that time that laguz would lose their power when they mated with beorc, so it's understandable that they would all be unsure of what to do.
But she should have fought harder to keep him there. That's the feeling I'm left with when I read the part of the script where Nasir and Gareth tell the story. She probably did say something, but it wasn't significant enough for them to remember it. And then she remarried. She probably did it soon enough to make it look like the baby beloned to someone else, and that also really irritates me.
Edit:
Also, I've always wondered if maybe what she fell in love with was his heron ability and beauty. He doesn't lose his beauty, but he did lose his enchanting voice, and his power, and everything that made him a heron, basically. Without those things, did he become a different person? Did it change him too much for her?
no subject
Date: 2008-11-05 11:18 pm (UTC)And that is precisely where it's weird ; why would she need her people to think her successor beorc, since no one was against interracial marriage yet ? Why not just let them think her child's father dead ?
That's sad, but for sure he irrevocably changed, though the question might be why; was it more because he was tired of being disappointed, or just because of the loss of his powers ?
Anyway, so it may not have a true marriage of love. But then, maybe she was in love, felt very guilty, lost self confidence, and sought the first available person to share her larger responsibilities.
Perhaps, regarding at the result of his interracial marriage, Sephiran judged it not sane, thus preferred the people to think Altina's child beorc and told her so.
PS: BTW, now I think that Serenes may have contested the theory of the "Apostle" cause of knowledge of the Empresses' heron brand which was her sole reason for hearing Ashera while being beorc...
How did their learn ? Err... hearing from afar ? reading feelings ?>