One Thousand Voices Slight
I can see
When you stay low, nothing happens
Does it feel right?
Slowly, Hadrian sucked in a breath.
Just as slowly, he exhaled it again. The room was so cold that his breathe fogged on the long, steel blade held against his neck.
Fear crawled up the back of his throat, but his mind could only marvel that there was no fog, no pain, no half forgotten memories that may or may not belong to him.
Another breath.
And finally, the fear had crawled back far enough that he could speak without fear of choking on his own words, his own, for once, thoughts.
"Who are you?"
The stranger grinned. He had a curiously cock-eyed grin, because a painful knife blow had torn his face open, splitting his lip into a permanant smirk. In the shadowy room, the scar had religated a good half of the stranger's face into shadow, until only one dark brown eye peered down at Hadrian in what could only be discribed as a macabre sort of satisfaction.
"Up you get, prince."
Hadrian hesitated, and the knife slipped down to rest the point in the shallow hollow of his throat, pressing until he felt the skin release a tiny drop of blood. "And be quiet about it."
Hadrian licked his lips. The words prompted the curious fuzzy feeling to invade his mind again, fretting in the corners of his thoughts, the memories and the people that he didn't know but were always there. Painfully, he blinked them away. For a second, the image of a dying woman was superimposed over that of the scarred stranger. Hadrian blinked again and the shade of the woman was gone, leaving him slightly dizzy but more steady.
"Let me up."
The words were garbled, but they were out and discernable. At least, the stranger seemed to understand, because he rocked back and slid soundlessly off the bed, rocking on his heels and bending at the knees so even the creaking floorboards didn't make a sound. His dark clothes slid seamlessly into the shadow, until only that pale brown eye peered at Hadrian so insistantly.
Swallowing, Hadrian righted himself and threw his legs over the side of the bed. The floor squeaked and the knife was back, pressing down between the vertebrae of his neck, just under the heavy lay of his hair. The stranger had vanished behind him, and Hadrian tilted his head back, barely daring to breathe, as the paper thin blade carefully drew a line across the back of his neck. There was little blood, but there was also little way to keep it from scarring.
"Strike one, my prince. Silently. Quiet. A shadow. You understand?"
Hadrian bit his lip and did not speak at all. He didn't dare nod, because that would prompt the blade to drag down his neck, skinning his spine.
"Step now. Quietly."
"Where?" the word came out barely a whisper. Hadrian glanced at the window, but the fragile glass panes were intact and securely locked from the inside, the nearly sheer curtains drawn tightly.
"Not the window." the knife prodded him to take a step forward, then another, crossing the floor. His bare feet were quieter against the floorboards than he had anticipated; still, whenever a board squealed, a quick draw of the knife invariably accompanied the misdemeanor. Still, the boards were quite cold, and he ventured to ask, "I need-"
"No. You're fine, and dressed enough for decency. Move. The door."
Warily, Hadrian glanced at the door. The guard was still sprawled across the opening, snoring peacefully and locked undoubtably in some pleasant dream of ale and wenches. Hadrian swallowed again, because the fear was crawling up his mouth again, souring his throat and burning the tip of his tongue as his insides heaved.
Another draw of the blade, more painful this time, a neat little cut on the soft skin of his throat. The blood oozed, and Hadrian gasped in surprised pain.
"Move, prince."
Carefully, painfully, he moved.
Cahir never slept.
He didn't need to. He'd never needed to. God or not, sleep was utterly repulsive. Memories existed in him, memories that liked the dark more than the light, and he preferred to keep his mind as clear and unmuddled as was possible.
Which was how he was sitting here, awake, and listening to the wolves howl from far away, watching the snow fall slowly. The flakes sizzeled when they hit the fire, their wet kisses popping across the flames. Idly, the avatar stirred the wood, prompting the blaze to a higher, snapping height.
The god was considering what to do.
His eye wandered around the camp. To the horses, standing close, heads down, sharing warmth on the cold night. The saddles and packs, piled somewhat haphazardly to one side. Then his companion, on the other side of the fire, neatly wrapped in a heavy, oiled wool cloak, quite asleep and ignorent of the slowly piling snow. Apparently, Seth could sleep anywhere, under any conditions. He'd stretched out, and he'd been asleep before another bitter word could pass his lips.
The fire snapped and devoured the last of the avatar's branch, snapping and licking his fingers. For a moment, the avatar held his hand in the flames, enjoying the curious tickling feeling until he felt his hand loosening. A single crystal drop fell from his fingertips, hissing and snarling in the flames, he he drew his hand back, shaking it to regain the feeling in the fingers.
Such a bitter human.
Normally, Cahir prided himself on the ability to read human beings like books. They were invariably predictable-for all their changability, they were doomed to endlessly repeate cycles. True, most of the cycles were impossibly old, so far back most wouldn't recognize them for what they were. But Cahir had been walking the earth for such a long time that he could recognize signs and signals that would tell him what a human was going to do.
But this one, while still following a pattern, was mind-bogglingly unhappy. Every single word uttered dripped with caustic scorn, the resignation of the stupidity of humankind, a stupidity recognized so much earlier than it should have been. All the bitterness of an old man, not a young one. The hunted look in a pair of jaded blue eyes.
Frowning, Cahir drummed the ground with his loosened fingers. He liked that bitterness-so often, it showed a spirit that was well concealed.
Still, this much hate was unusual. Particuarly for someone who had not had that hard of a life. Yes, his father had hated him. Yes, his mother hadn't cared. He'd been shipped off to the Temple to learn under an unconquerable leech, and then again to be killed by pirates. But he'd survived, most often by the skin of his teeth. He'd done his share of killing, but killing at a young age shouldn't leave that hunted look, or all those poisoned arrows. If anything, he should have become quite mad. Which he might be.
Cahir sighed, and stood.
A rustle of wings, and Thought stepped up beside him, the glossy, oiled angel wings glowing softly in the firelight.
"Thought."
The angel waited.
"I want to talk to Euclase." Cahir sighed again, but for a different reason. Euclase was always so unreasonable when Cahir came to talk. He didn't like it that the other god was using his name to masquerade among the humans. "Tell him I need to talk to him soon."
Thought nodded, his beaked mask hiding all but his dully glowing black eyes.
Cahir pushed his hands into his pockets. "And if he says no, tell him that Cahir isn't asking. It's Kavatcha. I think we have more of a problem than we realize."
The angel nodded and, with a rush of wind, vanished into the night.
Hadrian's temples ached dully. He was stumbling tired, but the blade pushed him on. The clarity of thought had long ago vanished and voices howled in his ears, but that thin piece of metal drove against his neck. Blood was oozing down his chest, staining his shirt from a thousand little cuts striping his torso. He had no idea where he was, or even if he was still in the same city. Once or twice, he'd tripped over cobblestones, but now the ground was hard-packed earth. Then it was wood again, the floorboards of some house, and the knife blade was lifted away from his neck.
With it, went the memories.
Hadrian paused, blinked, and stared.
The room was smokey and dimly lit, glaring under the shades of expensive lamps. The scarred man was nowhere in sight.
Leaving Hadrian at the mercy of a tall, elegant man, with long, coiled black hair, who sighed and folded his arms.
"Are you sure you have the prince? Are we really supposed to use this poor creature as leverage?"
____
Bad, I know, but I had to update OTV before I lost my touch. I've writtn like, five thousand words tonight, if you count my update called Fairy Tales. I am EXHAUSTED. Seth wouldn't cooperate, so I was stuck with Hadrian and Cahir. His real name is Kavatcha, if you read Fairy Tales. Seth next time, I pray-he'll wake up to Memory, poor lad. *grin*
Until next time
Irene
Had fun with you Jozzy-and I'm going to print this off ASAP and send it, I promise :D
When you stay low, nothing happens
Does it feel right?
Slowly, Hadrian sucked in a breath.
Just as slowly, he exhaled it again. The room was so cold that his breathe fogged on the long, steel blade held against his neck.
Fear crawled up the back of his throat, but his mind could only marvel that there was no fog, no pain, no half forgotten memories that may or may not belong to him.
Another breath.
And finally, the fear had crawled back far enough that he could speak without fear of choking on his own words, his own, for once, thoughts.
"Who are you?"
The stranger grinned. He had a curiously cock-eyed grin, because a painful knife blow had torn his face open, splitting his lip into a permanant smirk. In the shadowy room, the scar had religated a good half of the stranger's face into shadow, until only one dark brown eye peered down at Hadrian in what could only be discribed as a macabre sort of satisfaction.
"Up you get, prince."
Hadrian hesitated, and the knife slipped down to rest the point in the shallow hollow of his throat, pressing until he felt the skin release a tiny drop of blood. "And be quiet about it."
Hadrian licked his lips. The words prompted the curious fuzzy feeling to invade his mind again, fretting in the corners of his thoughts, the memories and the people that he didn't know but were always there. Painfully, he blinked them away. For a second, the image of a dying woman was superimposed over that of the scarred stranger. Hadrian blinked again and the shade of the woman was gone, leaving him slightly dizzy but more steady.
"Let me up."
The words were garbled, but they were out and discernable. At least, the stranger seemed to understand, because he rocked back and slid soundlessly off the bed, rocking on his heels and bending at the knees so even the creaking floorboards didn't make a sound. His dark clothes slid seamlessly into the shadow, until only that pale brown eye peered at Hadrian so insistantly.
Swallowing, Hadrian righted himself and threw his legs over the side of the bed. The floor squeaked and the knife was back, pressing down between the vertebrae of his neck, just under the heavy lay of his hair. The stranger had vanished behind him, and Hadrian tilted his head back, barely daring to breathe, as the paper thin blade carefully drew a line across the back of his neck. There was little blood, but there was also little way to keep it from scarring.
"Strike one, my prince. Silently. Quiet. A shadow. You understand?"
Hadrian bit his lip and did not speak at all. He didn't dare nod, because that would prompt the blade to drag down his neck, skinning his spine.
"Step now. Quietly."
"Where?" the word came out barely a whisper. Hadrian glanced at the window, but the fragile glass panes were intact and securely locked from the inside, the nearly sheer curtains drawn tightly.
"Not the window." the knife prodded him to take a step forward, then another, crossing the floor. His bare feet were quieter against the floorboards than he had anticipated; still, whenever a board squealed, a quick draw of the knife invariably accompanied the misdemeanor. Still, the boards were quite cold, and he ventured to ask, "I need-"
"No. You're fine, and dressed enough for decency. Move. The door."
Warily, Hadrian glanced at the door. The guard was still sprawled across the opening, snoring peacefully and locked undoubtably in some pleasant dream of ale and wenches. Hadrian swallowed again, because the fear was crawling up his mouth again, souring his throat and burning the tip of his tongue as his insides heaved.
Another draw of the blade, more painful this time, a neat little cut on the soft skin of his throat. The blood oozed, and Hadrian gasped in surprised pain.
"Move, prince."
Carefully, painfully, he moved.
Cahir never slept.
He didn't need to. He'd never needed to. God or not, sleep was utterly repulsive. Memories existed in him, memories that liked the dark more than the light, and he preferred to keep his mind as clear and unmuddled as was possible.
Which was how he was sitting here, awake, and listening to the wolves howl from far away, watching the snow fall slowly. The flakes sizzeled when they hit the fire, their wet kisses popping across the flames. Idly, the avatar stirred the wood, prompting the blaze to a higher, snapping height.
The god was considering what to do.
His eye wandered around the camp. To the horses, standing close, heads down, sharing warmth on the cold night. The saddles and packs, piled somewhat haphazardly to one side. Then his companion, on the other side of the fire, neatly wrapped in a heavy, oiled wool cloak, quite asleep and ignorent of the slowly piling snow. Apparently, Seth could sleep anywhere, under any conditions. He'd stretched out, and he'd been asleep before another bitter word could pass his lips.
The fire snapped and devoured the last of the avatar's branch, snapping and licking his fingers. For a moment, the avatar held his hand in the flames, enjoying the curious tickling feeling until he felt his hand loosening. A single crystal drop fell from his fingertips, hissing and snarling in the flames, he he drew his hand back, shaking it to regain the feeling in the fingers.
Such a bitter human.
Normally, Cahir prided himself on the ability to read human beings like books. They were invariably predictable-for all their changability, they were doomed to endlessly repeate cycles. True, most of the cycles were impossibly old, so far back most wouldn't recognize them for what they were. But Cahir had been walking the earth for such a long time that he could recognize signs and signals that would tell him what a human was going to do.
But this one, while still following a pattern, was mind-bogglingly unhappy. Every single word uttered dripped with caustic scorn, the resignation of the stupidity of humankind, a stupidity recognized so much earlier than it should have been. All the bitterness of an old man, not a young one. The hunted look in a pair of jaded blue eyes.
Frowning, Cahir drummed the ground with his loosened fingers. He liked that bitterness-so often, it showed a spirit that was well concealed.
Still, this much hate was unusual. Particuarly for someone who had not had that hard of a life. Yes, his father had hated him. Yes, his mother hadn't cared. He'd been shipped off to the Temple to learn under an unconquerable leech, and then again to be killed by pirates. But he'd survived, most often by the skin of his teeth. He'd done his share of killing, but killing at a young age shouldn't leave that hunted look, or all those poisoned arrows. If anything, he should have become quite mad. Which he might be.
Cahir sighed, and stood.
A rustle of wings, and Thought stepped up beside him, the glossy, oiled angel wings glowing softly in the firelight.
"Thought."
The angel waited.
"I want to talk to Euclase." Cahir sighed again, but for a different reason. Euclase was always so unreasonable when Cahir came to talk. He didn't like it that the other god was using his name to masquerade among the humans. "Tell him I need to talk to him soon."
Thought nodded, his beaked mask hiding all but his dully glowing black eyes.
Cahir pushed his hands into his pockets. "And if he says no, tell him that Cahir isn't asking. It's Kavatcha. I think we have more of a problem than we realize."
The angel nodded and, with a rush of wind, vanished into the night.
Hadrian's temples ached dully. He was stumbling tired, but the blade pushed him on. The clarity of thought had long ago vanished and voices howled in his ears, but that thin piece of metal drove against his neck. Blood was oozing down his chest, staining his shirt from a thousand little cuts striping his torso. He had no idea where he was, or even if he was still in the same city. Once or twice, he'd tripped over cobblestones, but now the ground was hard-packed earth. Then it was wood again, the floorboards of some house, and the knife blade was lifted away from his neck.
With it, went the memories.
Hadrian paused, blinked, and stared.
The room was smokey and dimly lit, glaring under the shades of expensive lamps. The scarred man was nowhere in sight.
Leaving Hadrian at the mercy of a tall, elegant man, with long, coiled black hair, who sighed and folded his arms.
"Are you sure you have the prince? Are we really supposed to use this poor creature as leverage?"
____
Bad, I know, but I had to update OTV before I lost my touch. I've writtn like, five thousand words tonight, if you count my update called Fairy Tales. I am EXHAUSTED. Seth wouldn't cooperate, so I was stuck with Hadrian and Cahir. His real name is Kavatcha, if you read Fairy Tales. Seth next time, I pray-he'll wake up to Memory, poor lad. *grin*
Until next time
Irene
Had fun with you Jozzy-and I'm going to print this off ASAP and send it, I promise :D