'Til Kingdom Come
Title: 'Til Kingdom Come, Part One
Author: Rissy James
Index: Table of Contents here.
Characters: Everyone ever. Major and minor series characters. OCs, some new, some appearing from my Emerald 'verse.
Pairings: It's complicated. Past Cain/Adora, eventual Cain/DG, canon Lavender/Ahamo.
Rating: 16+
Summary: Being a somewhat fabricated, but mostly accurate, history of the Outer Zone, therein concerning the aftermath of the Emerald War and the restoration of the House of Gale.
'Til Kingdom Come
Chapter Four
Azkadellia
Azkadellia's head was a lonely place. Her thoughts echoed.
It was an unfortunate side effect of her sudden wholeness, one among so many others, but it was one affliction she could not escape, turning her days into wretched, ugly waking nightmares, because her thoughts were dark things, full of pain and guilt and lingering doubt.
Was she still Azkadellia?
Was she still alive, herself, or some construct of flesh and blood, all dolled up in green?
Was she free?
She didn't know, couldn't know, and as the days went on, marching slow, so did she.
It had become something of her custom to spend as much time alone as she was able to manage without drawing undue suspicion. It was an effortless endeavour. Her presence made people feel uncomfortable and conflicted, and so she stayed away. She did not begrudge it of them. She felt the same, truth be told, each and every time she stared into the mirror, trapped in her own skin. Her own skin, hers, left behind when the witch was driven out, and she was stuck in her hollow flesh with her dark, echoing thoughts.
The days were much longer now, and the world more complicated.
She felt something of a shamed mother, wringing her hands at her pack of angry, unruly children, bound by circumstance, unable to speak, unable to act. Those who'd laid down arms after the suns had broken out of their unnatural prison, these were not loyal men. These were the cowards, frightened of a witch, of the power she'd wielded.
Once upon a time. Now her magic sapped her energy, left her breathless and turned her limbs to water. It heated her blood and quickened its rush through her veins, sent her vision spinning, her head reeling.
Her sister petted her, praised her, told her the power would come again, and in those damn sad limpid pools that were her sister's eyes, Azkadellia could see herself reflected, a failure, a conspirator. No victim was she.
DG could never know.
Not that DG was her greatest worry. Ever. No, DG was trapped in her own little circle of oblivion, cycling through her guilt and her pain and her questions like she was caught up in a twister that carried her higher and higher and never set her down.
The others... Tutor, her mother, the ex-lawman who followed her sister's lead wherever it took her... she wondered, incessantly wondered, if they knew, if they could sense that Azkadellia's innocence was not as pure as DG proclaimed, that her soul was not as untarnished as everyone hoped, so desperately hoped.
As for her father, as for DG... there were times when Azkadellia could not bear to see the love in their eyes, the smiles on their faces at the very sight of her. They suffocated her with expectation, while her mother stood back and waited, always watching. As she rightly should. As they all rightly should.
She was not immune to the whispers behind her back, to the questions that went unasked, nor the wariness in the eyes of those she loved. Just as her sister strove always to help, Azkadellia, too, wanted nothing more than to return her home to its former glory, to come to the aid of her people, to save something, if indeed there was anything left worth saving.
There was little could be done, but that little...
The idea had first come from Vysor as he'd quietly offered what council he could, a seed of thought to burrow its tendril-thin roots deep into her mind, to grow and flourish and consume her waking moments until it was all she could think about.
The only course. A chance. A long shot, to be certain, but - what choice did she have?
And so it was that the chain of events that began with a simple, soft-spoken suggestion brought Wyatt Cain into Azkadellia's apartments, standing as close to the door as he could without seeming rude, and then another step back for good measure. His hands were on his belt if only because the man seemed never to put them anywhere else, anchoring himself on the only strength he knew, his own self. He wore neither harness nor holster, his gun conspicuously absent from his new life within palace walls.
DG trusted him, wholly, completely. Blindly.
But could Azkadellia?
"Mr. Cain," she said, rising from her chair.
"Your Highness," was his required reply, and the bow of his head was stiff, a short jerk if nothing more. "You sent for me?" Eager as ever to be moving far and away from her and her requests. Familiar songs known by heart.
"I did," she said. "Would you please take a seat? I have little to offer but -"
"If it's all the same, I'd like to get this done." There was no anger in his voice, no coldness, but a certain detachment, an impatience that she couldn't ignore.
"Of course," she said, a little disappointed. She'd hoped to catch some measure of the man, this man who'd done so much to thwart so many of the witch's plans, this man who'd overcome everything that had been thrown at him - with help from DG and that certain, special luck of hers. He'd been beaten, imprisoned, chased, bitten, shot, tossed from a window, drowned, chased again, imprisoned again; he'd lost his wife, his son, his land, annuals of his life, and still he'd played an crucial role in the ending of the war and the restoration of her mother's line.
He was the one.
"Mr. Cain," she began, "it was brought to my attention that you know the location of - well, a certain fugitive." His eyes narrowed, cutting through her, and she could have shivered for all the ice that was held there. She steeled herself as best she could, her hands on the back of an armchair to keep them still and herself steady, but she did not meet his gaze again for fear she would quail and quake and lose her nerve. "If he has gone into hiding -"
"He's not hiding," Wyatt Cain said evenly. "We locked him up, and good riddance."
"A wise course of action, to be sure," she said carefully, "but as you well know, our circumstances have changed."
"What circumstances?" he asked, and his words were a knife's edge, sharp and shining. His feet shifted, almost as if he meant to step closer to better see the lie in her eyes, but after a moment he thought better of it, and stayed where he was.
"You were present at this afternoon's council meeting," she said. "You are aware of the situation with the insurgents, and the attacks on our forces."
"'Course I'm aware," Wyatt Cain snapped, forgetting himself. "That don't mean -"
"Mister Cain," Vysor said loudly, stepping forward from his darkened corner. "You will remember with whom you speak."
"Oh, I remember," said the ex-lawman. "Not like to forget."
Azkadellia watched as Vysor's face hardened, and while she'd become accustomed to such whispers, there were few who would dare to speak with such naked honesty in her presence. She might have found it refreshing if it did not leave her so saddened.
"Leave us," she said softly, and though she could read the objection in her advisor's eyes, he'd served too long under the Sorceress to be capable of insubordination. Vysor bowed his head - a graceful gesture, one of respect that softened the blow of Wyatt Cain's succinct statement - and he left the room without another word, closing the door noiselessly behind him.
"If you have concerns, I would hear them," she said, wanting to emulate the poise and poignancy of her mother, but she felt the blundering child trying to correct a mistake, tromping around in shoes far too big.
The Sorceress had never had much of a stomach for diplomacy, and Azkadellia truly felt lost in such matters, attempting to wrest what little control over her life she could. Her sister was determined to fix what wrongs they'd done. Was it her lead Azkadellia was meant to follow, or was she doomed to walk the road alone, no hope of a redemptive end?
"Trust me," said Wyatt Cain, smirking, "you don't want to be hearing what I've got to say."
"On the contrary," she said, "I am quite curious."
Wyatt Cain seemed to want none of it. "How did you find out about Zero?" he asked firmly, spitting out the name like so much foul poison.
"A rumour heard along the road," she said, purposefully evasive.
She did not tell Wyatt Cain that she'd just banished the source of her information from the room. Vysor's meddling, his ever efficient digging into the business of others that had yielded so much to the witch still remained at her disposal, though she was loath to put it to use. Wealth and fighters and spies, he'd delivered it all to the Sorceress, but never the emerald, that which she coveted above all else, and she'd have killed him for his failure but for the fact that the plans for the very tower she'd raised around her had been the result of his string-pulling and double-crossing. Her most trusted advisor. That singular feat had been his proving and had won his place at her side.
And so Vysor endured after the death of the Sorceress, the end of the war, and all the long, marching days that had come since. His loyalty belonged only to her, Azkadellia, not her family name nor the cause nor the country. Hers, and hers alone.
"What exactly is it you're wanting with Zero?" Wyatt Cain asked, his hard voice breaking into her thoughts with all the grace and subtlety of a thrown brick.
"I need his help," she said, and nothing more. Though she had nothing to hide, nothing to prove, she knew that without the man before her, her sister's guardian and friend, she would never find the one person with whom she had even the slightest chance of mending all she'd broken. The only chance she had at mending herself.
"There's nothing that man can do for you, Your Highness," Cain said, not unkindly, but it was only the briefest glimpse of tenderheartedness afforded her before he'd steeled his gaze again. "He's better off where he is."
"That is not your decision to make, Mr. Cain," she said, forcing out the words lest she choke on them. She'd heard too much, knew too much, understood all too well what Cain had lost to the war and the Longcoats. What Zero had taken from him, and why...
"You don't know what you're asking," he said, and for the first time there was true emotion in his voice, something deep and sorrowful that played with the strings of her heart. Almost ironic, as there were those who believed she had no heart, that she'd lost it to the witch, or that it had become some black, twisted thing beating away inside of her.
"I know what I am asking of you, Mr. Cain, and I could ask it of no other."
"So I mark it on a map -"
"No," she said quickly, "it must be you."
Wyatt Cain narrowed his eyes at her. "Why?"
Azkadellia paused, gathering what courage she had. "Your discretion in such matters, for one," she said. "You are a trusted ally of my mother and sister. Also -" And it was here that she balked at such a vile admission, "- your effectiveness was noted by the witch. She found you particularly... troublesome. I would use that to our advantage. He must know from the beginning how the game has changed."
Wyatt Cain took a moment to respond, and it seemed to Azkadellia that he was chewing on what she'd said, but it wasn't until he finally spoke that she realized to some relief that he'd stomached it.
"And if I refuse?"
Azkadellia smiled, still an odd, empty gesture to her without such cruel amusement as the witch had always taken. "You and I both know you are in no position to refuse."
Where such certainty came from within her, she was sure she didn't know. Such moments of vexation were not unknown to her, always leaving her disquieted, unsettled. Remnants of another life, that other life, moments and memories that could not be shaken off.
Cain glared at her, oblivious to her irresolution and making no attempt to mask his displeasure. He made a small growling noise in the back of his throat, and asked, "When do I leave?"
"Tomorrow, at first sunrise, I think shall suffice."
After he'd left, all but slamming the door behind him, Azkadellia collapsed into the nearest chair, her legs finished with holding her weight. She cared little for the small cloud of dust that escaped from the upholstery, and even less for crushing her gown with her poor posture. Her body, so accustomed to rigid brace and bearing, did not know how to just relax, and she felt something of an abandoned marionette, dropped and left in a heap of wood and string. This was how Vysor found her.
"The Tin Man left here in quite the huff," he said, and there was a smug smirk on his face, familiar enough an expression to give her comfort even if his words left her cold. "He will undertake the journey, then?"
Azkadellia nodded, touching a soft hand to her brow. "Tomorrow. I want Captain Lindsey to accompany him."
"I'm afraid neither will be pleased to hear this news."
"That is of no concern to me," she said. "As long as the task is completed and Zero is brought to Central City, everything else is of little importance. You will help Captain Lindsey make his preparations. Everything must be ready."
"As you wish, Your Highness," Vysor said, and left quietly once more.
Alone, Azkadellia slowly rose from her chair, absently smoothing her hands over her gown. There was so much to be done, yet little she had to do herself.
Waiting, it seemed, was to be her task, and she would do it grudgingly, as she must.
For fifteen annuals, she'd waited so impatiently as the plans of the Sorceress had taken their shape, as the pieces had come together. So much pain and so many deaths, so many nights of struggle and weeping and cursing, she'd fought and lost and watched helpless as the words had come and her hands had acted and she'd begun to understand the futility in resistance, the hopelessness of fighting.
All the plans, all the pieces, and all it had taken was one little storm to bring it all to a shattering end.
The mirror above the desk showed her pale face, her wide, dark eyes. Reaching out, Azkadellia touched a slender hand to the glass, and sighed. What a coward she was, afraid to face her own reflection. She took a deep breath, and raised her eyes.
The sad, shamed woman in the glass shuddered and began to cry.
Chapter Three | Chapter Five
Complete Chapter Index
Author: Rissy James
Index: Table of Contents here.
Characters: Everyone ever. Major and minor series characters. OCs, some new, some appearing from my Emerald 'verse.
Pairings: It's complicated. Past Cain/Adora, eventual Cain/DG, canon Lavender/Ahamo.
Rating: 16+
Summary: Being a somewhat fabricated, but mostly accurate, history of the Outer Zone, therein concerning the aftermath of the Emerald War and the restoration of the House of Gale.
'Til Kingdom Come
Chapter Four
Azkadellia
Azkadellia's head was a lonely place. Her thoughts echoed.
It was an unfortunate side effect of her sudden wholeness, one among so many others, but it was one affliction she could not escape, turning her days into wretched, ugly waking nightmares, because her thoughts were dark things, full of pain and guilt and lingering doubt.
Was she still Azkadellia?
Was she still alive, herself, or some construct of flesh and blood, all dolled up in green?
Was she free?
She didn't know, couldn't know, and as the days went on, marching slow, so did she.
It had become something of her custom to spend as much time alone as she was able to manage without drawing undue suspicion. It was an effortless endeavour. Her presence made people feel uncomfortable and conflicted, and so she stayed away. She did not begrudge it of them. She felt the same, truth be told, each and every time she stared into the mirror, trapped in her own skin. Her own skin, hers, left behind when the witch was driven out, and she was stuck in her hollow flesh with her dark, echoing thoughts.
The days were much longer now, and the world more complicated.
She felt something of a shamed mother, wringing her hands at her pack of angry, unruly children, bound by circumstance, unable to speak, unable to act. Those who'd laid down arms after the suns had broken out of their unnatural prison, these were not loyal men. These were the cowards, frightened of a witch, of the power she'd wielded.
Once upon a time. Now her magic sapped her energy, left her breathless and turned her limbs to water. It heated her blood and quickened its rush through her veins, sent her vision spinning, her head reeling.
Her sister petted her, praised her, told her the power would come again, and in those damn sad limpid pools that were her sister's eyes, Azkadellia could see herself reflected, a failure, a conspirator. No victim was she.
DG could never know.
Not that DG was her greatest worry. Ever. No, DG was trapped in her own little circle of oblivion, cycling through her guilt and her pain and her questions like she was caught up in a twister that carried her higher and higher and never set her down.
The others... Tutor, her mother, the ex-lawman who followed her sister's lead wherever it took her... she wondered, incessantly wondered, if they knew, if they could sense that Azkadellia's innocence was not as pure as DG proclaimed, that her soul was not as untarnished as everyone hoped, so desperately hoped.
As for her father, as for DG... there were times when Azkadellia could not bear to see the love in their eyes, the smiles on their faces at the very sight of her. They suffocated her with expectation, while her mother stood back and waited, always watching. As she rightly should. As they all rightly should.
She was not immune to the whispers behind her back, to the questions that went unasked, nor the wariness in the eyes of those she loved. Just as her sister strove always to help, Azkadellia, too, wanted nothing more than to return her home to its former glory, to come to the aid of her people, to save something, if indeed there was anything left worth saving.
There was little could be done, but that little...
The idea had first come from Vysor as he'd quietly offered what council he could, a seed of thought to burrow its tendril-thin roots deep into her mind, to grow and flourish and consume her waking moments until it was all she could think about.
The only course. A chance. A long shot, to be certain, but - what choice did she have?
And so it was that the chain of events that began with a simple, soft-spoken suggestion brought Wyatt Cain into Azkadellia's apartments, standing as close to the door as he could without seeming rude, and then another step back for good measure. His hands were on his belt if only because the man seemed never to put them anywhere else, anchoring himself on the only strength he knew, his own self. He wore neither harness nor holster, his gun conspicuously absent from his new life within palace walls.
DG trusted him, wholly, completely. Blindly.
But could Azkadellia?
"Mr. Cain," she said, rising from her chair.
"Your Highness," was his required reply, and the bow of his head was stiff, a short jerk if nothing more. "You sent for me?" Eager as ever to be moving far and away from her and her requests. Familiar songs known by heart.
"I did," she said. "Would you please take a seat? I have little to offer but -"
"If it's all the same, I'd like to get this done." There was no anger in his voice, no coldness, but a certain detachment, an impatience that she couldn't ignore.
"Of course," she said, a little disappointed. She'd hoped to catch some measure of the man, this man who'd done so much to thwart so many of the witch's plans, this man who'd overcome everything that had been thrown at him - with help from DG and that certain, special luck of hers. He'd been beaten, imprisoned, chased, bitten, shot, tossed from a window, drowned, chased again, imprisoned again; he'd lost his wife, his son, his land, annuals of his life, and still he'd played an crucial role in the ending of the war and the restoration of her mother's line.
He was the one.
"Mr. Cain," she began, "it was brought to my attention that you know the location of - well, a certain fugitive." His eyes narrowed, cutting through her, and she could have shivered for all the ice that was held there. She steeled herself as best she could, her hands on the back of an armchair to keep them still and herself steady, but she did not meet his gaze again for fear she would quail and quake and lose her nerve. "If he has gone into hiding -"
"He's not hiding," Wyatt Cain said evenly. "We locked him up, and good riddance."
"A wise course of action, to be sure," she said carefully, "but as you well know, our circumstances have changed."
"What circumstances?" he asked, and his words were a knife's edge, sharp and shining. His feet shifted, almost as if he meant to step closer to better see the lie in her eyes, but after a moment he thought better of it, and stayed where he was.
"You were present at this afternoon's council meeting," she said. "You are aware of the situation with the insurgents, and the attacks on our forces."
"'Course I'm aware," Wyatt Cain snapped, forgetting himself. "That don't mean -"
"Mister Cain," Vysor said loudly, stepping forward from his darkened corner. "You will remember with whom you speak."
"Oh, I remember," said the ex-lawman. "Not like to forget."
Azkadellia watched as Vysor's face hardened, and while she'd become accustomed to such whispers, there were few who would dare to speak with such naked honesty in her presence. She might have found it refreshing if it did not leave her so saddened.
"Leave us," she said softly, and though she could read the objection in her advisor's eyes, he'd served too long under the Sorceress to be capable of insubordination. Vysor bowed his head - a graceful gesture, one of respect that softened the blow of Wyatt Cain's succinct statement - and he left the room without another word, closing the door noiselessly behind him.
"If you have concerns, I would hear them," she said, wanting to emulate the poise and poignancy of her mother, but she felt the blundering child trying to correct a mistake, tromping around in shoes far too big.
The Sorceress had never had much of a stomach for diplomacy, and Azkadellia truly felt lost in such matters, attempting to wrest what little control over her life she could. Her sister was determined to fix what wrongs they'd done. Was it her lead Azkadellia was meant to follow, or was she doomed to walk the road alone, no hope of a redemptive end?
"Trust me," said Wyatt Cain, smirking, "you don't want to be hearing what I've got to say."
"On the contrary," she said, "I am quite curious."
Wyatt Cain seemed to want none of it. "How did you find out about Zero?" he asked firmly, spitting out the name like so much foul poison.
"A rumour heard along the road," she said, purposefully evasive.
She did not tell Wyatt Cain that she'd just banished the source of her information from the room. Vysor's meddling, his ever efficient digging into the business of others that had yielded so much to the witch still remained at her disposal, though she was loath to put it to use. Wealth and fighters and spies, he'd delivered it all to the Sorceress, but never the emerald, that which she coveted above all else, and she'd have killed him for his failure but for the fact that the plans for the very tower she'd raised around her had been the result of his string-pulling and double-crossing. Her most trusted advisor. That singular feat had been his proving and had won his place at her side.
And so Vysor endured after the death of the Sorceress, the end of the war, and all the long, marching days that had come since. His loyalty belonged only to her, Azkadellia, not her family name nor the cause nor the country. Hers, and hers alone.
"What exactly is it you're wanting with Zero?" Wyatt Cain asked, his hard voice breaking into her thoughts with all the grace and subtlety of a thrown brick.
"I need his help," she said, and nothing more. Though she had nothing to hide, nothing to prove, she knew that without the man before her, her sister's guardian and friend, she would never find the one person with whom she had even the slightest chance of mending all she'd broken. The only chance she had at mending herself.
"There's nothing that man can do for you, Your Highness," Cain said, not unkindly, but it was only the briefest glimpse of tenderheartedness afforded her before he'd steeled his gaze again. "He's better off where he is."
"That is not your decision to make, Mr. Cain," she said, forcing out the words lest she choke on them. She'd heard too much, knew too much, understood all too well what Cain had lost to the war and the Longcoats. What Zero had taken from him, and why...
"You don't know what you're asking," he said, and for the first time there was true emotion in his voice, something deep and sorrowful that played with the strings of her heart. Almost ironic, as there were those who believed she had no heart, that she'd lost it to the witch, or that it had become some black, twisted thing beating away inside of her.
"I know what I am asking of you, Mr. Cain, and I could ask it of no other."
"So I mark it on a map -"
"No," she said quickly, "it must be you."
Wyatt Cain narrowed his eyes at her. "Why?"
Azkadellia paused, gathering what courage she had. "Your discretion in such matters, for one," she said. "You are a trusted ally of my mother and sister. Also -" And it was here that she balked at such a vile admission, "- your effectiveness was noted by the witch. She found you particularly... troublesome. I would use that to our advantage. He must know from the beginning how the game has changed."
Wyatt Cain took a moment to respond, and it seemed to Azkadellia that he was chewing on what she'd said, but it wasn't until he finally spoke that she realized to some relief that he'd stomached it.
"And if I refuse?"
Azkadellia smiled, still an odd, empty gesture to her without such cruel amusement as the witch had always taken. "You and I both know you are in no position to refuse."
Where such certainty came from within her, she was sure she didn't know. Such moments of vexation were not unknown to her, always leaving her disquieted, unsettled. Remnants of another life, that other life, moments and memories that could not be shaken off.
Cain glared at her, oblivious to her irresolution and making no attempt to mask his displeasure. He made a small growling noise in the back of his throat, and asked, "When do I leave?"
"Tomorrow, at first sunrise, I think shall suffice."
After he'd left, all but slamming the door behind him, Azkadellia collapsed into the nearest chair, her legs finished with holding her weight. She cared little for the small cloud of dust that escaped from the upholstery, and even less for crushing her gown with her poor posture. Her body, so accustomed to rigid brace and bearing, did not know how to just relax, and she felt something of an abandoned marionette, dropped and left in a heap of wood and string. This was how Vysor found her.
"The Tin Man left here in quite the huff," he said, and there was a smug smirk on his face, familiar enough an expression to give her comfort even if his words left her cold. "He will undertake the journey, then?"
Azkadellia nodded, touching a soft hand to her brow. "Tomorrow. I want Captain Lindsey to accompany him."
"I'm afraid neither will be pleased to hear this news."
"That is of no concern to me," she said. "As long as the task is completed and Zero is brought to Central City, everything else is of little importance. You will help Captain Lindsey make his preparations. Everything must be ready."
"As you wish, Your Highness," Vysor said, and left quietly once more.
Alone, Azkadellia slowly rose from her chair, absently smoothing her hands over her gown. There was so much to be done, yet little she had to do herself.
Waiting, it seemed, was to be her task, and she would do it grudgingly, as she must.
For fifteen annuals, she'd waited so impatiently as the plans of the Sorceress had taken their shape, as the pieces had come together. So much pain and so many deaths, so many nights of struggle and weeping and cursing, she'd fought and lost and watched helpless as the words had come and her hands had acted and she'd begun to understand the futility in resistance, the hopelessness of fighting.
All the plans, all the pieces, and all it had taken was one little storm to bring it all to a shattering end.
The mirror above the desk showed her pale face, her wide, dark eyes. Reaching out, Azkadellia touched a slender hand to the glass, and sighed. What a coward she was, afraid to face her own reflection. She took a deep breath, and raised her eyes.
The sad, shamed woman in the glass shuddered and began to cry.
Chapter Three | Chapter Five
Complete Chapter Index