Tag Archives: fiction

Author’s Note: Allies should become friends, right? Bonding is important…

Strengthening Alliances and Making Friends

“Tell me about your people. What are they called?”

“I should not even be in your room, and yet you wish to discuss history? Are you as determined toward death as Anokii believes me to be, or are you just that curious?” Agache asked, and the queen almost smiled as she leaned back against the wall she knew he was beside. She, of course, had the balcony, but he was almost directly behind her, and no one would even know. Even if they saw her lips moving, she would be assumed to be a mad woman talking to herself, not to a supposed dead man.

“I told you that I asked Anokii. She did not answer. So I find myself asking you instead. I am not expecting you to answer—you don’t tend to answer when I ask questions, no one does. I suppose we had better discuss what brought you here, though, since I would not believe you would be here if it were not urgent, not when only yesterday you were feverish and had to be carried out by your cousin and her husband. Incidentally—how are you cousins with her and the king?”

Agache laughed. “Even the royals that carried the blood of one of ours—we are the Nebkasha, since you asked—were not considered fit for marriage to one of the Biskane. They married back into the Nebkasha before the edicts came down that such a thing was no longer permitted. They continued to do so in secret. Some say that is why my parents were executed, but I do not think the king cared whether or not they were married. He wanted them dead regardless of that fact.”

The queen nodded. “I am sorry. About your parents.”

“I do not remember them. Your sympathies are unnecessary. Anokii’s mother was my mother’s sister, and she raised me. That is why we are… close. She was as much a sister to me as mine were.”

“Were?”

“They are dead.”

“Because of the king?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I told you—sympathies are unnecessary.”

“The king took a lot from you. That is still wrong, no matter how long ago it happened or if you do not remember when it did. It is not something that can be ignored and forgotten. Such injustices cannot be allowed to continue.”

She felt his hand brush hers. “You are a strange sort of idealist for a trained assassin.”

“I am not an assassin. The esibani are the royal guard, not murderers. We protect, defend, and yes, we do kill when necessary, but that is not our goal. We do what must be done to save the royal family, nothing more.”

His hand claimed hers. “No, my lady, I think it is much more than you think. You would not find anyone in this land willing to do what you have done or to endure what you have while you have been here. Malzhi, the king, Omamhi…”

“I admit, the king’s return terrifies me. I do not want… If he decides that he wants what he has not yet taken… Or if Malzhi gets it…”

“We may yet prevent such a thing. Our goal is to free everyone from the king’s mistreatment, and that will free you as well. I know it is not much consolation, but I cannot promise you safety unless you say you want to leave, and we can get you across the border—”

“And let my homeland suffer under his armies when he comes to crush us for my failure to uphold the treaty? I am afraid that is not an option, even if I keep thinking that I want to run, that I should while I still can.”

Agache squeezed her hand. “Come. We should discuss the king’s return. I believe he will summon you, and we must be prepared for what is coming. I think you are right, that he will be watching you, waiting to turn against you, and since you do have a habit of acting too defiant for your own good, you must be careful.”

She laughed. “You sound absurd. What else can I be? Foolish? That I accomplished long ago, and it can only be worse now that I am here. The moment I agreed to take Zaze’s place, my fate was set.”

“I did not realize you had a choice.”

“True, I look more like Zaze than the other princesses and the rest of the esibani could not pass for her as easily, but they would not have killed me if I’d refused.”

“Just imprisoned you? That is, of course, so much better, isn’t it?”

She smiled. “Of course, though you know better than I do.”

“I do.”

“How is your arm?”

“Much improved.”

“Are you lying again?”

He laughed. “Perhaps.”

Author’s Note: I wanted to use these cufflinks in the story for a long time now, and I couldn’t resist them being the catalyst for… something else. 😉

Carson’s Present

“You sure you don’t want anything to eat?”

Carson shook his head. Food repulsed him at the moment. He’d already had to fend of Natalie and Mac’s disapproving look when he refused breakfast, and he didn’t know why Mackenna would bother asking. She knew that he’d lost his stomach in the night, and she should know better than to ask. “I’m still a bit queasy. You said there was plenty of stuff at the stops, so maybe later on I’ll feel like eating.”

“It’s a good thing your brothers weren’t willing to get up this early. They’d be harassing you about getting carsick.”

“I’d better not. Maybe I shouldn’t go with you. I know you think I should, but I don’t want to puke in the Maxwell and ruin this for everyone.”

She put her hands on his face. “Just remember that I don’t think you’re a killer, and I think you’ll be okay. You can’t resist me, so you may as well except what I say as fact then.”

He almost laughed, and he did manage a smile. She grinned back at him, and he tried to hold onto her confidence, wanting to believe that she was right even if most of him screamed that she had to be wrong. He didn’t know what to do if she was wrong, though. He didn’t think he could handle the consequences of that. He wasn’t sure if he’d have to be committed or serve time or what.

Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it was not what he thought at all.

“You are not a killer,” Mackenna repeated, and he nodded, letting his head rest against hers for a moment. She was sure, and he could let her go on being confident enough for the both of them, couldn’t he? He didn’t know. Maybe. He’d try. “I think I’d better get you your present.”

“My present?”

She nodded before she turned to the car, digging around in one of the containers cluttering the backseat. He watched her with a frown, not sure what she’d think he needed out of the Maxwell. She leaned back and held up an item in triumph before jumping off the car.

“Here. Mac refuses to wear these because he thinks they’re Fords, but they’re cute, and only he would know that, anyway,” Mackenna said, taking hold of Carson’s hand. He watched as she put the cufflink through the hole, trying to remember how he’d gotten into this mess, and then she fixed the other, giving him a wide grin. “Perfect. You look just like you belong.”

He should say something about how stupid he felt dressed up like this, that he didn’t know how she’d talked him into it, but after yesterday, he couldn’t help thinking about something else. Combine that with his dream last night and the way she’d tried to talk him out of his worst fears, he didn’t know how to react. He wanted to do something, to tell her how much all of this meant to him, but he couldn’t find any words. He should hug her, maybe. That would work. “Mackenna…”

“Your outfit is complete now,” she said, reaching up to adjust his shirt collar.

He couldn’t help it. He put his hand on her back, leaning forward to catch her lips with his, knowing he was making a huge mistake. This would ruin everything, and he needed her too much to let that happen, but he hadn’t stopped himself. Couldn’t, even now. She should smell like the cars, like grease and oil, but right now she was a bit floral—must have been her shampoo—and he found it a bit dizzying, though that could have been his stomach still being off from the night before. He couldn’t believe he’d done that.

He was a killer. He had no business kissing anyone, and he shouldn’t be kissing her because he knew this was going to ruin their friendship. He was an idiot.

Mackenna stepped back, blinking. “Um…”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. It’s just… You in a dress made me realize—No. It’s—I’m just trying to—I’m wrecking everything. That’s what I do. I didn’t—I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’m sorry.”

“We share the car.”

“What?”

“And I get to keep you forever.”

“Um, Mackenna, I don’t know what you’re—”

She cut him off with another kiss. Oh. So he hadn’t managed to screw everything up after all. Good. Very good.

Author’s Note: I am starting to think that I can’t draw this out too much longer. It might be time for a twist or something, and yet… I have an end in mind, so we’ll just have to see if I can make the two things work. I will wrap up part of this idea soon, and then I can add in a new thought or two and make it more exciting, I think.

Swapping Stories

“What could you have done before the war that was so terrible? Did you seduce someone and leave her pregnant and alone?” Violet asked, folding her hands in her lap. She did not see how Robbie could think his stories so terrible. “Did you kill anyone? Did you steal someone’s name and lie to everyone?”

He grimaced. “That is hardly a fair comparison. I don’t know that I was—I didn’t act with malicious intent, didn’t do things to hurt others, but that is not necessarily an excuse. I didn’t go ruining everyone I saw—though I did steal a kiss—I tricked a girl into letting me close enough for one, and then I did refuse to marry her after that. I didn’t like the way she kissed.”

Violet laughed, but then she had to grimace. “Was her name Alice?”

Robbie nodded. “Yes, it was. How did you know?”

“Another one of his stories. I asked him how he knew that he loved me, that he wanted to marry me, and he said because he’d tried this before, that he’d kissed Alice Andrews, and she didn’t mean a thing to him—that he didn’t like the way she tasted. He said I tasted better, that I was something more like… like the garden and freshness and flowers, and I remember telling him that flowers do not taste good—”

“Oh, Violet, did you go eating them when you were younger?” Robbie teased, a grin on his face as he leaned toward her.

She flushed, feeling very foolish. “They looked so pretty and smelled so nice I thought they’d taste wonderful as well. I found that I was wrong. They did not taste good at all. It was a rather humiliating experience, though Mother laughed for days and said she’d picked the right name for me.”

“I do think she did.”

“You are not going to call me a sprite now, are you?”

“No, of course not. I just think that a fine name shared with a lovely flower suits you. You are in some ways as delicate and beautiful as a flower, but then you are stronger than any plant could hope to be, even those that withstand the winter frosts. I would not say that it is right to think of you only as your namesake, but I do think it agrees with you in many ways.”

She lowered her head, flushing for a different reason. “I would think it best if you do not flatter me, Mr. Winston. This is… Our situation remains quite awkward, and I do not wish to confuse things.”

He shook his head. “Forgive me. It was not my intention to be confusing, nor insincere. I hope I did not offend you or make you uncomfortable. I do not want to cause you any more distress than I have already. It seems every time we discuss a part of my past, I learn it has been usurped, and you learn that another story he told you is a lie.”

Violet put her hands together. That was part of what concerned her—indeed, she did not think she would avoid a second sleepless night over the matter. All of Winston’s stories were Robbie’s, and what she’d loved about him was not true, not even the slightest bit. She felt sick again. She did not want to give in to that feeling, that despair. She needed to act with the strength that he kept saying that she had.

“I think that I should go.”

“Oh, and just when I’d come in to ask you if you’d like to stay to dinner,” her mother said, drawing both their eyes to the doorway where she stood, a slight grimace on her face. “Are you sure you won’t? Cook has prepared Violet’s current favorite, and while I know we did have it the last time you dined with us, you did seem to like it.”

“So I did,” he said with a smile. “I would not mind staying—if Violet does not object to that.”

She should—or part of her thought that she should—but she also didn’t. She would like him to stay. She didn’t know what was best. She knew her mother wanted him here. She had already said so. Aunt Beatrice would not be as welcoming—she had not been pleased with Robbie since he refused to marry Violet when her aunt more or less decreed it.

“No,” she said, thinking that she would likely regret this. “I do not object.”

Author’s Note: So it was time that Agache showed a bit of weakness, that he revealed that he was hurt and seemed more real, I thought.

Tending to the Wounded

Anokii crossed over to Agache’s side, undoing the ties that held his shirt around his neck and slipping it off of his shoulder, down his arm. He stiffened, but he made no attempt to stop her as she exposed the wound that lanced his arm. She shook her head, aware of Gekin cursing behind her as she tried not to think about what the king would have done to create such a deep and lasting mark upon him. She could see that it had started healing, but it would scar, a mark that he would never lose.

“Are there others like this one?”

He shook his head. “Not as bad. That one was torn open when I escaped and again when I was dealing with… a problem. It is improving, but today it throbbed, and I blame that on my conviction that the king is in the city.”

Anokii nodded. “Such fear does make us imagine things to be worse than they are.”

“This problem… That was not Omamhi, was it?” The queen asked, moving over to him. “Please tell me you did not injure yourself on my account.”

He shook his head. “It was before I took him from your room.”

“Then you are a fool for doing so,” the queen said, and Anokii had to agree with her. She sat down behind him, starting in on a low hum that reminded Anokii of their own hymns. She did not recognize the tune, but that did not mean that it was not what she thought the queen intended it to be—a soothing melody meant to relax Agache while Anokii treated his wounds.

“What is that you are doing?”

The queen stilled. “Oh, I… It is a habit, I suppose. When one of ours is ill or injured, we sing a wind song. No, truthfully, we hum one. None of us remember the words anymore. They have been lost to time, since they came from the time when we flew, according to the legends, at least. My mother made her own words sometimes, but I have not her voice.”

“I am surprised,” Agache said, frowning. “Such a thing seems so unlikely with your upbringing. It would not suggest a great deal of… tenderness or affection.”

The queen laughed. “I suppose you would assume so, but it was not like this place at all. Who do you think my first trainer was?”

“Your mother?”

“Yes.” She grinned, and Agache smiled before closing his eyes. The queen touched her hand to his forehead and grimaced. “Is he that warm because he is glowing, or is he feverish?”

“He is feverish. We all know we have so little time left to do what we must to stop the king, but he is doing too much without any rest at all that I can see.”

“He said he wanted his ‘death’ to have a meaning.”

Gekin snorted. “If he is not careful, he will end up dead, and there will be no escaping this time.”

“Take him to somewhere he can be treated properly and keep him there if you can,” the queen said, rising. “If the king is back, I will do my best to distract him, and though it repulses me, I know I am already a distraction for Malzhi. Agache will help no one if he dies now.”

“Very true. Will you be able to make it back to your rooms alone?”

“I will be fine,” the queen said with resolution, pulling the cloak’s hood over her and turning to leave. Stubborn, that was what she was.

Gekin whistled, shaking his head as he bent to lift Agache into his arms. “I think I can see why he values her as an ally so much. She’s stronger than she knows.”

Author’s Note: So I had the ending to this story clear in my head. I did. I do. I can’t get it on paper, though, not for the life of me, and so I’m getting kind of tempted to stop posting parts until I have that ending. I don’t know what to do. It’s very frustrating. I know what should be there, I know how the flashback should work, but it doesn’t work. It refuses to. Not the the scenes I wrote before it are the greatest ever, but that flashback is key to the mystery and the ending, and it is not working at all. I’ve got a few scenes left before it comes that I can post, but I admit… I’m running out fast, and I don’t know that I can make it work in time for when I’m out of the stuff that was good. 🙁

Mackenna to the Rescue

“Carson? You about ready?”

“I think you should go without me.”

Mackenna frowned, pushing open his door. She didn’t know what he thought he was doing, but if he was going to sleep in, he could do it another day. Today was special, and they didn’t have a lot of time. They were going to be late, and she didn’t want to be late. They still had plenty to do when they got to the car. “You’re not dressed.”

“I… I am not going. Just leave me alone.”

She shook her head, crossing over to his side, and when she got closer, she grimaced as the stench of vomit assailed her nose. “You’re sick? Why didn’t you say so? How long have you been throwing up, anyway?”

“It stopped a while ago. I’m not… sick. I’m just… Mackenna, I killed him.”

She knelt down next to Carson, putting a hand to his head and checking for a fever. He had to be talking crazy. He hadn’t killed his father. That was not who he was. She didn’t believe him, not for a second. “You didn’t. You must have talked yourself into a nightmare or something because you are not a killer.”

“It was so clear. Mom was trying to get me cleaned up, she was talking about the blood, and she… I said it. I said it plain as day. I said I killed him.”

“You were eight. You could have been confused. You don’t know that you did anything of the sort. All you know is that you were injured and she was cleaning you up. You don’t know why you would have thought you killed him, but just because you did doesn’t mean that you murdered him. That’s not you. I know it’s not.”

He shook his head, sounding so lost and miserable that she didn’t know what to do. She wrapped her arms around him, and he stiffened, but she held on tight. She couldn’t let him go, not now, not like this. She just couldn’t. Not when he was convinced he was a killer. She knew better. He had to be wrong.

“I want to believe it must have been an accident, but if it was an accident—”

“Then you, as a little kid, would have assumed that it was something worse. You would have blamed yourself. You wouldn’t have listened to reason then, just like you’re not now.”

“I think I hate myself.”

“You don’t need to do that, either. Carson, please, you still don’t have all the pieces. Yes, your younger self thought you were a killer. Does that mean that you were? No. You didn’t know how to process it. You probably had no idea what it would have meant if it was an accident or if it was self-defense. You didn’t know how to comprehend it, so your brain blocked it out, and now you’re jumping to the conclusion that it was like murder when it couldn’t have been. You’re not that kind of person.”

“If he molested me and I did it in self-defense, is it really that much better?”

“In some sense, yes. Not only did you get a bit of revenge, but you had a good reason to use whatever you had to in order to stop him.”

Carson shook his head. “I… I can’t do this. I think it’s past time that I go—”

“No. If you get all of your memories back and you need help dealing with them, that’s one thing, but you’re not going to lock yourself away just because you might have done something to your father. You don’t know that you did.”

“You don’t know that I didn’t.”

“I do,” she insisted. “I know you. You’re a good man. If you weren’t my instincts would have warned me away from you a long time ago. They didn’t. I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere, not abandoning you.”

He took a couple deep breaths, shaking his head. “I don’t understand how you can do that. Or why you care about any of it. I didn’t mean to dump it in your lap, but for some reason, you stayed with it. With me.”

“Well, at first I felt sorry for you,” she said, knowing the admission wouldn’t help. She reached up to run her fingers through his hair. “I think you should shower and clean up a bit. You’ll feel a lot better when you do. I want you to stay with me today, okay?”

He nodded, and she smiled, glad he’d agreed to that. “Wear the blue shirt today. Then we’ll match. Kind of.”

He snorted, and she gave him another squeeze before rising to deal with the trashcan. “If you take too long in the shower, though, you’ll worry me and I’ll come in after you. Fair warning.”

“I won’t be long.”

“Good. I have something to give you before we leave this morning. Well, it’s in the Maxwell, but I have something for you, all right?”

“All right.”

The End

And so you see, that is how I came to be a superhero.

Yes, I agree, the lamest one ever. Lame power, not-so-smart, not-so-tough, not-so-bright, not-so-good. Really, I was just human, a bit genetically modified, and my greatest successes were no more monumental than anyone else’s—almost arguably less than them. Ordinary everyday heroes did so much better than I did—and April, as a teacher, was definitely one of them.

So why would anyone care about my story? Why bother telling it?

So someone would learn from my mistakes?

Maybe.

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“Tell it again.”

Clayton laughed and picked up the little boy, lifting him into his arms. “Aren’t you sick of that story yet? It’s not even a good story.”

“It’s funny,” the boy said, putting out his bottom lip and doing an impressive pout.

“It won’t work. Your Uncle Larabee might have tried to tell you that it does, and it does work on him, but not on me. You know better than that.”

“Dad, come on! Please! I like when you tell me the superhero story. Your story. Mom’s story,” the boy insisted, wrapping his arms around Clay’s neck. “I’m not that tired. Please?”

Clay shook his head. “You know how Mom feels about bedtime. One story. Or one part of it, at least. No more. Now you’ve had the story, and it’s time to go to bed. No arguing.”

“But Dad! You haven’t told all of it. You know you haven’t. You haven’t gone into how I got here or when you went up against the other bad guys. You need to tell all of it. All of it.”

“And when would you sleep then?” April asked, not amused. Their son winced. He knew that Mommy meant business. She always did. “Go wash up and get into bed already.”

“Mom, what’s a Ninety-Nine?”

“Bed.”

Clayton set the boy down. He immediately started to protest. “But—”

She pointed him toward his room and shook her head as she watched him go. Clayton went over and wrapped his arms around his wife. She sighed tiredly. “You were telling him the story again?”

“Well, not all of it. That was his main complaint.”

“He should complain about you bad mouthing yourself all the time.”

“He thinks I’m a hero, and we both know that’s not true.”

April elbowed him, and Clay rubbed his stomach, grimacing. “Stop saying that. You’re his hero, and that’s what matters, isn’t it?”

“You’re worried about him trying to do what I can do, aren’t you?”

“Yes. And it does not help that Larabee keeps giving him new superhero costumes every time he comes by. That poor kid. He never stood a chance.”

“I don’t know,” Clay said, rocking her gently in his arms. “I think he stands a better chance of growing up to be a hero than I ever did.”

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Author’s Note: This story was a lot easier to incorporate the words from Three Word Wednesday into, since all it took was Violet’s question to lead into them all. In fact, one of them kept coming up without any effort on my part.

The words for this week were: believe, penitent, and tribute.

Questioning Motives

“Do you believe he feels any kind of remorse?”

Robert shook his head. He had to think that if the man who’d stolen his name had any kind of repentance in him. If he had, he’d have come back and done right by Violet a long time ago. He’d have confessed, on his knees, to everything he’d done, to the lies and the theft, and after he’d finished, he’d take her by the hand and beg her to forgive him, to let him make it up to her for the rest of his life. He’d do anything to be able to marry her legally and be the father to her child that he should be.

Since he had not even bothered to write her since he left, Robert had to assume that he didn’t care at all what happened to her or the child. He didn’t have any remorse in him, and he would not be penitent, not now, not ever. He’d never come back and ask to be forgiven. He’d left, and he had no heart in him, not if he could abandon Violet like that.

“No.”

Violet nodded, turning away from the window, rubbing her back as she did. “I don’t think I can disagree with you. That is the hardest part in all this. I doubt that if he came back I would know what to do with him. Shouldn’t I hate him for the rest of my life? And yet… propriety would say that I should want him here, that I should be glad to have him if he’d only have me, that if he gave me a legal marriage and a name for my child that I shouldn’t care. I should just be grateful.”

Robert shook his head. “I don’t think so. How can you be grateful to have a man who abandoned you come back into your life like that? So what if he gives you a name and a marriage? Marriage to him would be a mistake you should not make a second time.”

She sighed. He grimaced. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He crossed over to her side, taking her hand and trying to guide her back to her chair. She should be sitting, even if she didn’t think so.

“I just think it’s dangerous to let yourself be open to him hurting you all over again. Even if he begged for forgiveness, how would you know if he was sincere or not?”

“I don’t know. I don’t have any way of knowing. Everything I thought I knew about him was a lie, wasn’t it?”

“Not necessarily. Those stories were mine, not his, but maybe others weren’t. Maybe the real him showed through at times, and you loved that, too, didn’t you?”

She twisted her lip, biting it. “I don’t… What if that was the part of him that I found the most infuriating was the part that was the most real? What if the only part of him that was honest was the part I hated?”

Robert almost laughed. “I’m sorry, but I can’t see that you’d like only the parts that he stole from me. You are too smart for that.”

She gave him a look. “I was a fool, and we all know I was.”

He wanted her to stop saying that. He did not like it when she talked about herself that way. “You had no reason to think that he was lying. You didn’t know that his stories were stolen. You were perhaps a bit naïve, but who would think that he would deceive you like that? Even now we don’t know why he did that. His reasons for marrying you don’t make much sense.”

“Thank you.”

Robert winced. “I am sorry. That’s not what I meant. I can see why you were someone he was interested in, why he’d want to marry you, why he loved you, but what I don’t understand is why he thought he had to lie to get you.”

She let out a breath, brushing back some loose hair. “Perhaps it is what you said. He thought I was… That I was not willing to marry any man with less than your social status.”

“That makes him a fool. I don’t think that is what matters to you at all.”

She smiled. “Not so much. I did not plan on marrying before I met him, and then he… I found his stories charming and really wanted to believe that I was in love. Now… Well, now I don’t know that I was. If all I liked was his stories…”

“Perhaps he should have been a writer. He could have audiences love him like… uh… Dickens did.”

She laughed. “You’re not much of a reader, are you?”

“No.”

“He stole your stories, too, and just because he could tell them in a way that I enjoyed hearing does not mean that he could write them. I doubt he would want to write them down, though. All that book would be—”

“A tribute to boyhood mischief?”

“Well… yes, though I think there was more to his stories besides your childhood.”

“There was?”

“Does that scare you?”

“Considering some of the things I did before I went to war, yes, it does.”

Author’s Note: I really enjoy the quiet moments with Gekin and Anokii. They are so comfortable with each other.

Then, of course, my attempts to have a plot get in the way. 😛

Necessary Interruptions and Discussions

“Can we blame my more amorous mood on the need to have something good after the horror that was today?” Gekin asked, combing his hand through Anokii’s hair. He had not let go of her from the moment they’d reached the same point in the catacombs, and she would not call it amorous as much as desperate. He needed to hold onto her, and she wanted to be held. She could not want anything else, except perhaps to cry. Knowing that so many had died today, that the king was back and responsible for many of those deaths, she could not stop shuddering, and he had soothed her as much as he’d soothed himself by clinging to her.

“You are not so amorous.”

“Of course I am, niniamant,” he said, pressing his lips to her neck and making her shiver for a different reason. “I love when you do that. Not that I should—there are too many unpleasant reasons for you to shiver, but when you do so because of me…”

“I know you well enough to know that you would spend all your time indulging us in the pleasant ones, but that is not the life we live.”

“You won’t leave now that Agache has revealed that he is alive, will you?”

She sighed. She did not know why he would ask her that, not now. “You would not truly leave. That is not who you are, not who we are. We may value our love more than most things in life, but not enough to let our people continue to suffer.”

“There is too much good in your family, too much obligation,” Gekin said, but she knew that tone of his. He always betrayed his affection in his voice, even if that affection came out grudgingly. He took hold of her and kissed her, and she felt as though she would melt into one of the catacombs’ puddles until he broke away.

“Someone is here,” he said, tensing, and Anokii almost smiled at the guilty look on his face, the same one he’d had when they were children just falling in love and every kiss seemed forbidden. He had always been more charming when he was sheepish, though she did feel somewhat uneasy when she thought perhaps he had forgotten that they were to meet Agache tonight.

“It is only me, cousin, and I have stumbled upon you and your wife in worse states before. This is nothing.”

Gekin grimaced, and Anokii laughed, for Agache’s words were true. “You seem… improved since I saw you last. You were able to sleep?”

“He sleeps? That is surprising,” the queen said, giving him a dark look. He smiled back at her. “Don’t smirk at me. I am still not sure why I didn’t just stab you instead of following you down here. I am almost certain that Malzhi drugged me again, and I do not appreciate being woken after that.”

Agache frowned. “You let him touch you?”

“Would you rather I killed him? That seems to be the only way to avoid his touch.”

“I thought you didn’t want to kill anyone.”

“I don’t,” she said, drawing her cloak around her. She closed her eyes. “How many people died today? Do we know yet?”

“The last count was twenty.”

She cursed in her native tongue, shaking her head. “Why would they do that? Killing their own troops is no way to win a war. It seems foolish at best and is worse than heartless.”

Agache sat down across from her. “No, worse is that I believe the king was among those making sure the troops did not survive their training.”

Her head jerked up, and she went as pale as one of their people. “He is back? Oh, tell me you have a plan of some sort to end this thing. I… I have been feeling as though his return means my death for some time now, and if we are going to act, the time must be now.”

“I agree. That is why I forced you from your bed.”

She glared at him, reaching for a handful of water and throwing it at him. “How can you lead a revolution when you are so… infuriating?”

“I suspect the king and Malzhi find my actions with the revolution far more irritating than you do,” he told her, smiling again. Anokii frowned. Although she had wanted to see her cousin’s spirit return to him, she had not wanted it to be like this. He was being too playful, and that worried her. If he was acting as though nothing were bothering him, he was doing it for the queen’s sake, pretending that he was fearless, but why should he make such an effort for her? Acting as though he were a child did not change what they were against, and he could not fool the queen forever.

Another reason for his behavior came to her, and Anokii cursed. “How much pain are you in right now, Agache?”

He closed his eyes. “Sometimes I hate how well you know me, cousin.”

by

The Burden of Survival

Author’s Note: So I thought about what to do for Three Word Wednesday, knowing that the prompts would not work for the scene I’d written to follow the last one I’d posted of this story, and forcing the words in would not work at all.

Then the idea of Agache watching the nitage and this came about. It doesn’t really fit with the rest of the story because he has not shared his thoughts since the prologue, but it is set at the same time as The Queen, the Bird, and the Cage.

The words for this week were: believe, penitent, and tribute.

The Burden of Survival

He stood, watching the others pay tribute to a man who was not dead, wondering how much of him was a coward and how much was weak. Were he a stronger person, a better man, he would not be standing above the crowds, would not be a mere observer. He would be where he would be of use, would have announced his survival and made it hold some kind of purpose, but he was not there. He was where he knew he would not be seen.

True, he had been noticed, once, but he did not think that he was seen so much as sensed, and he had been impressed by that. Even now, he felt his lips curving into a smile. He had known the woman was different, but he had not known how until he caught her in the middle of her routine. He had been taught some rudimentary swordsmanship when he was younger, but he had not half the skill or grace that she had displayed when she walked through those steps. No, she danced through them, giving the movements an elegance that they should not have had. He could have watched her for days, not hoping to learn anything from what she was doing, just admiring it.

He shook his head. Perhaps if he had more training, he could use it in the quiet as she did, renewing his strength, but he did not possess it. He did not know that he had any strength at all.

He closed his eyes, listening to the hymns coming from below. He had heard them sung before, once a year for every year of his life, but this year he felt condemned by it. They mourned, all of them grieved, and they sang for someone who did not deserve their esteem. Their love was given to an idea, a myth, and he wondered when it had been created. Upon his arrest? When they were told that he was dead? Was that all it took to become a martyr?

He was not worthy of such honor, and even if he managed to succeed in his recent campaigns, he did not believe that he ever would be. He put a hand against the wall, leaning back against it. He felt weak in more than spirit. His body had not yet healed, and all those aches had chosen to manifest themselves now, joining the chorus coming from the outside.

“Let the nitage end,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Let us never mourn again.”

He knew that was not possible. They would lose more of the Nebkasha even if they managed to overthrow the king. The king and Malzhi. They had to be certain that no one with Malzhi’s amount of control and cruelty was there to step into the king’s place.

Agache opened his eyes, stepping across the balcony to look the one where Malzhi stood with the queen. If she was not foreign, perhaps she could have been the one to succeed the king, but the land would never accept her as his heir. Not with their prejudice. Anyone who was not Biskane was not worthy of their attention. That was what they believed, what they had always believed.

He saw the queen pull away from Malzhi, leaving the balcony, and he stepped back, lest Malzhi’s attention come toward her window and spot him there. None of the Nebkasha should be here—they should all be down with the mourners. He could not join them, though. What they grieved was false, and he could not be a part of it.

He looked up as the queen shut the door behind her, betraying her relief at being alone. He had not thought she’d reach this room so quickly, but if she had run or he’d been too distracted, too slow in his movements, it was possible. He turned to leave, but the floor creaked, revealing his presence. She blinked. “Shouldn’t you be down mourning with the others?”

He did not—could not—respond. He was not ready to reveal that he was alive, even if he had thought that he wanted her for an ally. He lowered the shade that kept the sun out, hearing her sigh.

“I didn’t know any of you had been kept behind to see to my needs. If I had, I would have sent you to join the others.”

He frowned. Something in her voice bothered him. She did not sound as she should. He grimaced, cursing himself for not thinking of it sooner. She should have been warned. He poured some water from the pitcher and carried it to her. She sipped from the cup, and he watched her with concern, thinking that she might just collapse on him.

“I lied,” she said. “I do care about the ones he calls worms.”

That made him smile, though he doubted that she had meant to say anything to him. “I thought you would.”

The queen frowned, but the herbs that Malzhi used were already taking effect. “What…”

“Rest, Esibani. You are safe here.” Agache moved forward, catching her as she faltered, lifting her up into his arms. His body protested, his arm in particular objecting to the weight as he carried her over to her bed. He did not care. He should hurt. That was what he deserved.

He set her down on the bed and sat beside her, looking down at her face. He could not let this happen to her again, not to her or any of the others. He lowered his head and took a deep breath. He would do this, do what was necessary to protect her and the others. That was his duty. His penance. He had lived, and he must make his continued existence worth something after his failure to do so with the first chance he’d been given.

“You are safe,” he repeated, knowing he would do everything that he could to keep her that way. Her and the rest of the Nebkasha. What happened to him did not matter, not even if Malzhi came through the door now. Agache would stay and ensure her safety, and while he did, he would try to find a way to help the others. His hand went to the scar on his arm, and he cursed, knowing that he would fail at this task as well.

Though this is not a part of the story so far, you can read more by starting here.

Author’s Note: Hmm… Poor Carson?

Too Close to the Answer

“We need to get you in the bath now. Get you all cleaned up,” his mother said, fussing with his shirt, and Carson didn’t answer her. He didn’t try and stop her. He didn’t know how. All he could do was stand there. “Come on now. In the tub.”

She tried to pull him over, but he couldn’t move. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t deserve to be clean. She shouldn’t be fussing. He wasn’t worth it. She’d been all worried about him, but he didn’t know why she bothered. She shouldn’t. He knew that much, at least.

“You know I can’t lift you anymore. You’re too big for that. You have to get in the tub,” she said, getting him close to the side of it. He stared down at the water. He didn’t want to be in the water. He didn’t think he needed a bath or any of it. He knew he didn’t deserve it. “Your side has to hurt. Get in there so we can take care of it.”

He looked at her and then back at the water. He didn’t feel anything. He was fine. He shouldn’t be, but he was. He should be anything but okay, but he was.

“We’ll take care of your side after we’ve gotten you all clean. I need to know… Need to know where all that blood came from.”

“I killed him.”

Carson jerked himself awake, stumbling out of the bed and over to the desk, catching hold of the trash can just in time to lose his stomach in it. He bent over it and tried to calm himself down. He could feel a sting in his eyes, and he knew that he wanted to cry. Oh, sure, they’d discussed it plenty, talked about the ways it could have been him and why it might have been, but to hear himself say it, that was something different.

He didn’t know what to do now. He had his answer—almost—and it was the one that he did not want to have. He knew there were worse possibilities than him being the killer—unless he assumed that his father had molested him and that was why he’d killed him. If his father hadn’t hurt him one way or another, what did that make him? Cold-blooded? At eight?

He supposed it might have been an accident. Maybe he had that scar on his side because the gun had gone off by mistake. Maybe he’d taken a pot-shot at the car, and when his father realized what he’d done, he tried to take the gun away, and it went off, killing him.

That was the best explanation, and Carson wanted it to be that. He did. He didn’t know that he could accept it, but he liked it better than any other possibility. He curled up against the desk, not sure what to think or do. A part of him wanted to go in and wake Mackenna and have her tell him he was wrong, but he wasn’t. He’d had a memory resurface, and he didn’t get to deny it just because it wasn’t one that he liked. He’d done it. He had to accept that.

He felt his stomach twist, and he leaned over the trashcan, puking a second time. This was not going to work. He had to settle down somehow. Maybe he did have to wake Mackenna. He didn’t know what else to do.

He didn’t like this. He couldn’t handle it. He’d thought he could, after talking about it and theorizing and preparing himself for it, but he was wrong. He couldn’t. He did not want to accept that he’d killed his father. He’d been hoping all this time for the memories to say that he wasn’t the killer, but they didn’t.

He sighed. How was he supposed to go on, knowing what he’d done? He didn’t have any idea. How did one go about dealing with the fact that they were a killer? He supposed that the ones who chose to kill didn’t have much of an issue with it. Others might be tormented with guilt. He was the second type—or at least he hoped he was.

Damn it. He should have gone when he’d thought of it, gone and found a shrink and committed himself. He wasn’t fit to be wandering around free. He was a killer. He’d made up eyes watching him and imagined shadows so that he wouldn’t have to face it, but it was true. He’d killed his father.

He had murdered his own father.

He shoved the trash can away and started to cry.