The summons had come to Lothos in the form of his small cousin, Jurii.  The color was high in the little boy’s cheeks, and he fidgeted with excitement.

            “Miss Asthura wishes your presence at the mausoleum, laetyz,” he piped, hugging his older relative before leaving.

            The mausoleum.

            Lothos shuddered; he hated those things!  The air in them was always dank, cold, and stale, with the mana always in a similar state.  Residue clung thickly to the bodies, and old memories dusted the bones like the spider webs that stuck to visitor’s clothes and hair.  So disgusting.  Why the Humans believed in leaving the bodies of their dead to rot the Elf would never understand, but it was a barbaric practice that much disturbed his people.  Only a cleansing white fire truly dispersed all the memories and mana, and let a soul travel away whole.  But, he supposed, given how cruel most Humans were to the living, a bit more cruelty toward the dead couldn’t hurt them.

            He sighed and opened his clothing trunk.  Well, if he was going to have to go to that death house, he wasn’t going to be ruining his good silk!  He set about tying back his hair as he pulled work clothes out, laying them on his cot and trying to steel himself for what was lurking ahead.

 

 

            “The plickbyrd wants us at the mausoleum,” Solin butted into Imre’s conversation with one of his men.  Imre raised an eyebrow at the boy but excused himself.

            “The mausoleum?  Ahh, I wondeer what shee could bee wantin’ wi’ us theere…  Well, lead the way,” he told the boy, not knowing himself where the death house lay, and motioned him to be guide.

 

            Asthura was pacing around the main chamber of the mausoleum when the others arrived.  Her boot heels clacked against the dusty cobblestones, echoing as she paced back and forth, her brow furrowed in thought as she twisted a lock of hair around her fingers.  The damp, chill, and musty air didn’t seem to affect – let alone bother – her, but Solin shivered and Lothos wrinkled his nose, muttering, “barbaric,” under his breath.  The Elf and Imre both had to keep their heads ducked in the low-ceilinged room; Solin had barely leeway to stand upright and Asthura could almost stretch her arms over her head. 

            “Cyscu tytsuv,” Lothos said softly, jarring her from her musings into reality.  Her surprise was only momentary before her usual stone-y expression hardened her face.

            “Ten sub?”  Lothos asked her, concerned.

            Are you all right?

            The Kafriis waved his question away and retrieved a low-burning torch from the wall.

            “Follow me,” she commanded, and disappeared into the floor.  Lothos yelped in surprise, stepping forward.  No, not disappeared; dropped through an opening in the stones.

            “Ugh!” he stuck his tongue out, “That is so… so… dirty!  Ahh!!” Solin shoved him roughly and he dropped into the hole, a dull thud announcing his arrival on the bare dirt bellow.

            Imre laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “Bee a beet more deeceent to heem, ey boy?” he sent the suggestion lightly into Solin.  The boy shrugged but didn’t object as he followed the Elf, the Outislander behind.

            The lower tunnel of the crypt were pitch black, but for the sphere of light cast by Asthura’s now-thriving torch.  Lothos coughed and gagged on the thick smells of mold and death.  The walls were slick, made of mud as they disappeared into the darkness.  Worms and other slimy subterranean life writhed and skittered around the stained yellow of bone.

            Solin looked around, his face dark but eyes lit with curiosity as he reached out with his left hand to touch the wall by some impulse.

            “Don’t!” Asthura warned and Solin momentarily froze.

            “Why not, plickbyrd?” his ingrained disregard for authority figures ran deep; let alone his un-based hate for Kafriis, “It’s only mud!”

            An eerie grin pulled at the Kafriis’ mouth, “Fine, boy; be my guest,” she motioned the wall, inviting him to follow the impulse.  Solin hesitated, offset by her expression, but then glared at her in defiance and set his hand against the wall.

            Nothing happened.

            Solin sneered and pulled his hand back, wagging his fingers at her.  She turned on her heel and started walking down the tunnel, “Keep up or you’ll get lost in the dark.”

            Imre followed first, leading Solin by example and the boy moved to follow him.  Lothos grabbed his arm, clinging to it.  Solin swore and shook him off, but made no abortive attempt to the Elf grabbing handfuls of his cloak.

            “Weer are wee goin’?” Imre asked Asthura, his voice muted under all the mud.

            “You’ll see,” her reply was so soft as to be barely heard over the sputtering of the torch.  A comment of, “I don’t like this place,” from Lothos was the last thing said before the group lapsed into silence.  Asthura led them through the blackness, a figure floating in torchlight, her feet invisible in the shadow.  It clenched Lothos’ stomach tighter and tighter every time she unerringly took a turn – he knew she had never been here before, and Human sub crypts were always so full of tunnels as to resemble a beehive.

            At last they emerged into a chamber, the change in architecture noticeable only by the new echo of their shoes as the cobblestones started again, and the air seemed less compact.  The Kafriis proceeded to walk familiarly about the room, lighting half rotted torches in their sconces as the men stood waiting in the center.  With each lit torch the room became more visible and Lothos’ feeling of unease increased.  He released his death grip on Solin’s cloak, inching instead over to Imre and hugging to his arm.  The Outislander looked at him momentarily, and then cast his gaze over the room.

            A large stone sarcophagus sat half imbedded into the wall on the far side, mud oozing around its edges.  Sitting reverently on a shelf above, was a sinister looking skull, its teeth sharp and white.  Carved into the shelf edge below the skull, were eight circular indents.  Only two were filled, a red stone and a yellow stone set into the two middle slots.  Black and silver runes as big as a person’s head and intricately drawn glimmered on the walls, the only things untouched by the mud.  The floor under their feet was covered in a thin film of dark liquid, and four plinths were set in a rectangle, each some four feet from the adjacent wall.

            “Where the fuck are we?” Solin gasped, his composure fled.

            “In death… in the First Hell Gate… in… evil,” Lothos whispered.

            “Not quite, my melodramatic friend,” Asthura looked amused, “But perhaps close.  We’re in the tomb of a Greater Dead.”

            “Of a what?” Solin demanded, usual cockiness gathered to him once again.

            “A Greater Dead, boy, is a necromancer who’s power surpasses even that of a Necromaster,” Asthura explained.

            Well.

            That explained the overwhelming feeling of death that was bombarding Lothos.

            “Which has what to do with anything?”

            Asthura dropped her torch to the floor, letting it gutter out.

            “Of ten battles we’ve fought against these TwiceGods we’ve only won three!  And we’ve lost nine thousand of some fifteen thousand fighters; a thousand more will die of injuries within the week.  That leaves us with four thousand able-bodied fighters until Masa gets here with reinforcements, and Doljurik brings his people, which could be at anytime between today and months.  Then we’ll be some twenty thousand strong.  But those fucking TwiceGods are already regrouping, and they’ve got fifteen thousand – and one of them is a match for five of us – any idea how outnumbered that leaves us?!”

            “If we had perhaps twenty men they’d have four thousand,” Imre said very quietly.

            “Exactly!  But do you know what?  They have no necromancers.  Having one would give us a fighting chance!  We could use the bodies they slay against them—”

            “No!” Lothos yelped, his skin white, “Necromancers and their… creatures, are an abomination to life!”

            “And there won’t be any life left to abominate if these TwiceGods have their way!” Asthura snapped.

            “What are you planning?” Imre asked warily.

            “This crypt contains one of the Greater Dead of ancient times.  All we have to do is summon it, pay it for its services, and it will resurrect our dead so that we can win!”

            “Why not just hire a necromancer?” Imre asked.

            “Because they’re all too weak,” the Kafriis scoffed.

            “How do you plan to summon it then?!”  Lothos yelped, “You don’t have a-” Asthura pulled a dark black book out from under her cloak, “Necronomicon,” he squeaked and shrunk against Imre, trying not to vomit.

            “A book of the dead!” Solin gasped, eyes wide.

            “Where-” Lothos cleared his throat, “Where did you get that?”

            “Not a matter of your concern,” Asthura growled.

            “Weel you have yeer book and yee know what yee plan to do with it, so why breeng us here?”

            Asthura looked annoyed, though it was unclear at what.

            “I can’t open the fucking book; it has a magical lock on it!” she hauled at the covers in illustration, but the book didn’t even open a little bit, “I can’t read it anyway.  I need you, Lothos, to open it, and I need you to read it, Imre.”

            “And Solin-?”

            “Well,” Asthura smirked at him,” He touched the wall.  He’ll see.”

            The unease growing in Solin became apparent as the color drained from his face.  Lothos shook his head, just as much at himself as at Asthura, “I refuse to open that lock!”

            “And why not?”

            “A Necronomicon is not something to be taken lightly; nor is a Greater Dead!  You say all we do is pay it to work for us, but what if we can’t meet its price?  Then we’ve unleashed something that can work against us at the very least!” the Elf argued, sounding more courageous and steady than he felt.

            “What will happen to us if we don’t?” Asthura answered in a tone that sent icy shivers down Lothos’ spine.

            “How much ees thees Greater Dead like to cost if wee raise eet?”

            “We won’t know until we do,” Asthura answered truthfully.

            “I will not open that lock!” Lothos blurted again, adamantly.

            “Lothos,” Imre gently slid his arm from the Elf’s vice-grip, “We have no choice.  Open the lock for her,” he impacted the suggestion firmly into him.  The Elf’s face darkened, knowing full well what had just happened, but he was unable to resist; Imre was powerful.

            And may he go straight to the Fifth Hell gate and writhe beyond it for always! Lothos thought bitterly and vehemently, satisfied in some small degree as Imre flinched.

            “Open it,” Asthura thrust the book at him, her words an irresistible command as she was fully aware of what Imre had just done.

            The Elf was pale and a tear ran down each cheek, as part of his mind made his body do what Imre wanted it to, while some small back corner of his mind screamed objections.  The Outislander’s eyes grew more and more saddened, guilt-ridden by what he had done.  The book was cold and slimy in Lothos’ hands; so cold, in fact, as to make his palms burn and ache.  He mustered what will he could and resisted stubbornly to bringing the correct spell to mind.  Asthura noticed his hesitation and moved to stand in front of him.

            “Qgos aslo got tges…” she whispered to him, bringing the rest of the spell to mind.

            “Qgos aslo got tges mi bohyl,

            Yt zaq les mi bohyl,

            Qgos gok o mysak,

            It zoq ezmaezk,

            Aeruvsu.”

            There was a dusty crack like a bone breaking as the lock opened.  Asthura grabbed the book greedily and began scanning the pages hungrily for the one she needed.  She found it without trouble, the Elf noted, though she couldn’t read the ancient script.

            Enough.  He’d had enough.

            He whirled on his heel to make his way out.

            “Where are you going?”

            “Aes.  Oqoi.  Oziqguvu mes geve!  Iae goru musvoiuk bi svets ozk etuk bu cydu o kac sa ka ieav qavd!  Y qyc goru zasgyzh bavu sa ka qysg sgyt.”

            Out.  Away.  Anywhere but here!  You have betrayed my trust and used me like a doll to do your work!  I will have nothing more to do with this.

            “You’ll have just as much to do with this as the rest of us, Elf; you’re people have a stake in this too!” Asthura growled in fury, causing Lothos to turn slowly to face her, eyes dark with fury.

            “My people have a stake in this?  Have a ‘stake’ in what; the war?  The whole godsdamned world has a stake in that!  We do not, however, have responsibilities to encouraging something that is utterly against not only our principles, but also against our beliefs and what we stand for!”

            “Oh?” Asthura’s mouth turned up in a wry grin,” And what do you stand for?”

            “For life; for preserving it!  Necromancers are a very perversion of nature and of life.”

            A jarring laugh echoed throughout the chamber, followed by a long string of mumblings in a jumble of all four languages of Andorian, Outisland, Kafriis, and Shoak-Elven.  Imre had been softly murmuring the spell written in the book, moving of another’s volition about the room as he touched various runes and they trailed away from the wall to the sarcophagus.  He pulled the yellow crystal from its socket and picked up the skull, dropping the crystal in before replacing the skull on the shelf.  He stepped back, crumpling to the floor as the skull’s jaw began to clack and then chatter violently, pointed teeth gnashing.  Then, just as suddenly, it was still.  An eerie red glow grew in the right eye socket, condensing into something like a pupil that focused on each of the visitors in turn.  Solin yelped and stepped back, bumping into Lothos, so afraid that he didn’t object in any way to the Elf wrapping his slender arms around his shoulders.

            “Such an odd gathering we have here that would come just to call me names in my own home,” the skull spoke in a harsh voice, its tone unreadable,  “Though I doubt that’s what occasions this visit, just as much as I doubt you’ve come out of concern for my welfare!” it cackled.

            “We wish to employ your services-” Asthura began, but the skull cut her off.

            “Deathly Life,

A circle dance,

Toss a knife;

A game of chance.

 

Daily night,

Sunny moonrise,

Darkened light;

Living dies.

 

Shadowed highlights,

Sinful good,

Silent recites,

Shouldn't would.

 

Healing hurt,

Gently harsh,

Cleansing dirt,

Desert marsh.

 

Should be dead,

Isn't yet,

Has been fed,

Pay the debt.

 

Use magic Black,

Mocking white,

To bring it back,

And wrong the right.

           

The price is high,

To pay in souls,

But what you buy,

Achieves your goals.

 

The key is power,

To win the game;

If you cower,

Know the shame.

 

Loyalty can be bought:

Here you sign,

The contract wrought,

And thereby bind.

 

For you the fight's

Not over yet,

But then my sight's

Upon the debt.

 

Blood you owe;

Blood is money,

Blood of the foe,

Is sweet as honey…” the skull rattled off into a shriek of laughter. 

“What do you want?” the Kafriis asked, seeming to be the only one unperturbed by the Greater Dead’s lack of sanity.

“I want souls, I want blood, I want mana, I want power, I want to be fully regenerated at last, I want to rule your puny little world, and I want to kill you all.  But, for payment, the first three will suffice.  I do, however, have a specific soul in mind for starters,” the red orb fixed on Asthura, “And you and I shall haggle for it – after you’ve given me back my body, that is.”

“What will you do for us in return?”

“Hmmm,” the skull fell silent a moment, “I’ll raise your dead.  I’ll go into battle with you, and I’ll lend you the services of my creatures.”

“Done,” Asthura exclaimed firmly before either the Elf or Solin could argue.

A low moan filled the room; it’s pitch steadily increasing until it was a howling shriek.  The mundanes had to clap their hands over their ears or go deaf.  The runes on the walls were shredded away and the torches spluttered as though a great wind swept around the chamber, and dissolved into the sarcophagus, silver and black veins forming rivulets up the wall to the skull and tracing over it.  The red orb dulled and died and the room was silent again.  Gradually, faint sucking sounds could be heard, followed by clacking and rattling as though bones were rolling about on stone.  Lothos got the feeling that he didn’t want to turn around, but did so against his better judgment.  He screamed loud and scurried backward, tripping over the prone form of Imre and sitting hard on his rear.  Solin was pale as the dead thing he slowly turned to face.

The redead was an odd creature of origins none present recognized.  It was like a mix of a dragon and a cat, but was twice as deadly and twice as feral as the two combined.  Bones were repulsed from the wall, rolling toward it to take their place where gaps left the skeleton formed at odd angles, and it slowly righted itself.  Its tail cut a steady swath back and forth as it formed long enough to show the movement.  Its eyes glowed a piercing green that scanned the room and fixed on the sarcophagus.  Then, wasting no time in transit, it leapt to the other side of the room and slammed its shoulder against the great stone lid, causing it to grate open a few inches.  Doggedly it repeated this motion, continuing even when it’s shoulder cracked and then splintered.  Finally the lid was imbedded entirely into the wall and it stood back, crouching on the floor.

A tornado of bones immediately whirled out of the tomb, jumbling about as they slowly clacked into place like a puzzle, slowly building the skeletal form like to that of an ancient Tigren.  The whirlwind reverently picked up the skull, settling it atop the body.  The red orb immediately flared back to life as muscle and flesh knit upward over the bone frame, giving the body form.  Fur spread over the skin, and hair flowed from half of the skull as a closed eyelid formed over the left socket.  Without turning the corpse slammed its hand backwards, regardless of the damage, and dug the red stone from the wall.  Its hand curled into a fist about the stone and punched violently into its chest, withdrawing empty-handed.  No sooner had the left eyelid opened to reveal a completely white eye that slowly took on color, then the body began to disintegrate in various areas, stopping when it had been reduced to a state of half-rot.

“Ahhh,” the Greater Dead sighed in pleasure, “I exist again at last!”

Exist was a terribly correct way to put it, in Lothos’ view.  She was neither dead nor alive, but a grotesque contortion of the two.  The left side of her face was shaped of a grim and unearthly beauty, marred only by the hole rotten through her cheek that exposed the gleaming feline teeth below.  Her left eye was a thing of bizarre magnificence, seeming to be all colors and no colors and one color at any given time.  Her right eye was a black pit in the gleaming white bone of her half-exposed skull, a blood red pupil floating within.  Her hair – or what there was of it – was a gleaming raven black, braided back from her forehead in four small braids that were tied off at the top of her head.  Her bangs fell in strands over her face, accompanied by a single ringlet near her tattered ear.  Black streaks striped her blood-dyed fur were it lay glossy and matted by turns, giving way to flesh, bare muscle, and bone over her chest, left arm, right hip, left thigh, and right calf and foot.  Her tail swished restlessly back and fourth behind her, the vertebrae at its tip being slightly left behind at each swath and clicking musically with its mates as the tail changed direction.  Her left hand, missing its pinky finger and the rest completely bone, reached up to stroke a necklace of strung fangs, the bangles about the right wrist clinking faintly.

The redead stood and walked a circle about her, rubbing against her like a great cat.  Pieces of her flesh caught against the splintered shoulder and were shredded away, but the holes knit themselves back over.

“Now,” the mismatched eyes flitted over each member of the group and fixed on Solin.  “Come here,” she lifted her hand and curled her pointer finger in indication of the action, but Solin merely shrunk back against Lothos, and the Greater Dead laughed.

Lothos tightened his hold on the boy, glaring at the Greater Dead with defiance he felt as a spiked knot in the pit of his stomach.

“Ahh, Elf.  Your courage is…” – one side of the lips sneered – “admirable, but the boy owes me.”

“He does not!” Lothos retorted.

“The blood is upon his hand; he owes me,” she motioned Solin’s hand.

The boy held his hand up, slowly turning the palm to look at it.  It was stained black not with dirt, but with blood.  He made a strangled sound at the back of his throat as sleek, black forms writhed against his hand.  The sound turned into a full scream as they shrieked and burrowed into his skin.

“Solin!” Lothos yelped, but the Greater Dead seized the opportunity to grab the boy away by the wrist of the affected hand and pull him away from the Elf.  She forbore no hesitation as she grabbed hold of his pinky in her free hand and wrenched it off with an escalation in Solin’s screaming.  She casually tossed the finger to the redead, which caught it in its mouth, and the finger vanished as though eaten.  The boy’s face was contorted in agony as his own blood washed away the black in a river of red, but the Greater Dead merely smirked and wrenched free his ring finger, tossing it, too, to the redead.  She was about to claim a third finger when Asthura stepped forward and commanded, “Enough!”

“ ‘Enough’?” the Greater Dead raised a delicate eyebrow at the Kafriis.  “His whole hand is mine, wherever it has been marked; you know that.”

Asthura shook her head, though not in disagreement, “This is too much for him.”

“Well it’s not as though you particularly favor him,” she pointed out wryly, examining Solin’s agony-contorted face in interest.  “My slicks are making short work of the limb anyway.”

“Call them out,” the Kafriis ordered.

“And why would I do that?  I’m not under your jurisdiction yet, little byrd.”

“Call.  Them.  Out.  Or I’ll banish you again!”

The Greater Dead shrieked with amusement, “You can’t; we both know that!”

“Want to test that theory?” Asthura grated through clenched teeth, a dangerous spark coming to her eyes.  The Greater Dead raised an eyebrow in response.

“Fine,” she clipped, and thrust Solin’s hand toward Asthura, “Take his place.”

“Solin-” Lothos moaned, reaching out as though to take the boy back, but was frozen by a glance from the Greater Dead.  The Kafriis laid the palm of her hand against the boy’s.

The reaction was almost immediate as small bulges popped up along Solin’s arm, racing toward his palm.  The slicks didn’t hesitate to burrow into Asthura’s hand, energized by the small consumption done to Solin’s arm.  Asthura gritted her teeth, holding her arm to her but making no attempt to stop the creatures.  The Greater Dead casually tossed the Human to the feet of Lothos, who immediately tore a strip from his shirt and tied it around the boy’s wrist as tightly as he could.

“Lothos,” Asthura grunted, sucking in air through her teeth, nostrils flared, “Get Imre up and get out of here.”

“But-”

“Get out!!”

The Elf left the boy long enough to shake the Outislander to awareness and get him started to the exit before gently picking up Solin and leaving, almost ashamed at his relief to be going.

The Kafriis watched them depart, and then turned her attention back to the creature before her.  “Name.  Your.  Price.”

“I want a soul.  But not just any will do, Kafriis.  No.  My services cost a high price to the user, but I think you’ll find the worth will even out.”

“Then tell me: what soul?” Asthura was looking increasingly pale, her face taking an almost bluish tinge as sweat trickled down her cheeks and her body was wracked by spasms.

“The soul of your son.”

“No.” her response was immediate and final, “That is too high just for some zombies.”

The Greater Dead smirked, satisfied in some way, “You are a wise woman, Kafriis.  So be it.  Give me my payment, and I’ll return the services I see as equal in worth.  Does this agree with you?”

Asthura nodded once, “Take Varathan.”

“What part of him?”

“All of him; heart, body, mind, and soul.”

“There is no hesitation in your decision?  How curious…  But it is a deal.  And now I would like my immediate sustenance…”

 

 

Lothos had seen to Solin’s hand, sealing and bandaging the wound with healing herbs, and now the boy lay prone on the Elf’s cot, drifting in fitful dreams.

“Yj iae gyc sodu, Josu gyc sodu.  Sgaehg mu ys zas os sgu tobu sybu, sgu tlocut gyc mocozlu yz lazlcetyaz,” he recited the old proverb.

If you will take, then Fate will take.  Though be it not at the same time, the scales will balance in conclusion.

“It would seem that all of your misdeeds have caught you in one fell swoop, caruci,” he whispered and moved a strand of the boy’s hair to the side.

“Mvasguv, sguvu yt oz ubuvhuzli os sgu boetacueb; xcuotu, labu weyldci!” one of his fellows burst into the tent, breathing heavily and flushed from running.

Brother, there is an emergency at the mausoleum; please, come quickly!

Lothos was immediately standing, “Qgos got goxuzuk?” he demanded.

What has happened?!

“Asthura-” Lothos was past him running even before the sentence was finished.

 

 

She lay curled in a ball on her right side on the mausoleum steps, a pool of blood already about a meter in diameter slowly spreading further outward and creeping down the steps.

“Qgos sgu-?” his thin brows drew together in confusion as he dropped to his knees beside her, heedless of the blood that soaked his pants.  It was immediately apparent what was wrong as he pulled her to lie on her back: her right arm was in a bad way… In fact, it was no longer there at all.  The Elf almost threw up, the blood draining from his face as his throat tightened and his stomach clenched.  Hadn’t enough happened today?  The Kafriis moaned and her eyes fluttered open, staring wildly about as her chest heaved, her lungs struggling to draw in air.

“Athan,” she gurgled.

“Athan?  What’s that?” Lothos asked desperately, mind racing.  She’d lost a lot of blood; she probably only had a few more minutes left.  What was a healing spell big enough for this?  Did he have the energy for it?

“H-him… he’s… he’s,” her eyes rolled back into her head, body contorting with the beginning of shock.

“Asthura!”  he screamed, letting out a long string of curses, “Don’t you dare die on me, you bitch!”  he laid his hands on her collar bones, pinning them to the ground, heedless of the blood spurting from her gaping wound.  “Y labozk iae sa guoc!  Guoc, kobz iae, guoc!” he couldn’t collect his thoughts, couldn’t focus, and with every encantation that slipped through his mind’s grasp more life slipped from Asthura.

Suddenly calm descended upon him and strength flooded through him and the words came clearly to his mind and left his lips.  Time seemed to slow around him as he watched the blood slow and then stop altogether as the veins closed and the blood clotted over the wound.  Then it was as if time sped and slammed into him, leaving him sprawled back against Imre.  It wasn’t a complete heal, he observed, more as though the wound were older, but it would do.  He gasped in air, dimly realizing he had been forgetting to breathe.  His mind was growing fuzzy as he tried to understand what Imre was doing here and what the Outislander was saying to him in his muddled words.  His vision blurred and darkened as cold seeped into his body and left his lips blue.  I’m going to faint, was his the last thing he remembered thinking before he drifted into unconsciousness, his body going limp in Imre’s arms.

 

           

            The wind whispered through the trees, softly rustling their leaves and casting a sparkling dappled pattern of sunlight and shadow upon the ground.  It was comfortably warm, even in the shade, and the sun’s rays were calming as they gently beamed persuasions to relax.  Birdsong trilled from the upper branches, as the creatures flitted from perch to perch.

All around stretched a seemingly endless field, dotted by flowers, waves running through the tall grasses.  Flutterbies and the occasional fairy glided between the flowers, helping themselves to their petals and pollens, and insects droned from all directions.  The sky above was a rich blue, fat white clouds drifting lazily across the expanse and casting shadows over the ground.

Foolish Human dresses, was the first thought to come to Asthura’s mind as she slowly woke, her dress uncomfortable and tight as she stretched in the sunlight and yawned as she opened her eyes slowly and looked around.  Kubitarwa Field… always such a beautiful place.

“Finally awake, are you?” a familiar voice chuckled from behind her.  Varathan leaned over to kiss her softly; blonde curls brushing lightly against her face, the red in his hair catching in the sunlight.  His blue eyes were the same color of the deep sky, freckles speckling his cheeks below.

“How long was I asleep-?”

“The better part of the day, fuwa.”

“That long?  It seems so much longer…” Asthura sat slowly, casting her gaze out over the field as she sighed softly, feeling peaceful and tranquil in the first time for ages.  Athan shifted to sit close beside her, his thigh against hers as he rested his cheek on her shoulder.

“Such a beautiful day…  I hadn’t realized how much I’m going to miss this,” Athan admitted softly, eyes a bit sad.

Asthura looked at him in consternation, brows furrowing slightly, “What are you going to miss?” she asked, panicked by the words for no reason she could discern.

“This.  You; nature’s beautiful days like this…  Life.  A lot of things, really,” he sighed softly, “I took so much for granted.”

The feeling of panic tightened the Kafriis’ chest, “Why are you going to miss it?  What do you mean?  Where are you going-?” the questions spilled from her in a torrent of anxiety as she unconsciously gripped Athan’s arm.

The Human lifted his head to look at her fondly but with a twinge of regret.  “I’m sorry I wasted all those years, Asthura.  I still love you, you know – even after things went awry the feeling never went away.  Had I half a brain I would have made amends before I ever left… but you know us Humans: always reacting on the moment.”

“I don’t understand, Athan… what are you talking about?” Asthura pleaded for an answer.  The inescapable knowledge that time was growing short flooded her.  Her brain scrambled to make sense of what Varathan was talking about, but couldn’t grasp the meaning.

“Y su.  Dia, tan fuwa.  Y jumi…” Athan leaned in and kissed Asthura softly, pulling her into his arms to hold her a few moments before kissing her again and standing.  He touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers before at last he began to walk away toward the horizon, eventually disappearing amongst the grass.

Emotions swamped Asthura as she was nearly drowned in a profound sense of loss, regret, and sorrow as she sat, silently watching Athan recede into the distance.  Her heart constricted as she pulled her knees up against her chest, wrapping her arms around them.  Eventually she buried her face in the folds of her dress and her shoulders shook with silent tears.

She was not aware of the passage of time as the day wore on, clouds moving in to block the sun and cloak the sky.  The birds and bugs fell silent, portending heavy rain as they took shelter.  The wind picked up and the air chilled in the absence of the sun.  Slowly at first, droplets of rain began to fall.  Their frequency increased, however, until a heavy downpour pounded the landscape, the clouds above dark and roiling as lightning lanced between them.  Thunder boomed loud enough to hurt the ears, rumbling across the terra and leaving the tree branches trembling.  Asthura was soaked to the skin within moments but she did not move.  The storm was secondary to her grief and she paid it little mind.  Only when a blinding flash of lightning split the tree behind her did she startle.

 

Searing pain lanced through Asthura’s torso as she sat bolt upright, gasping for breath and eyes wide.  Her body was covered in an uncomfortable sheen of fevered sweat, shirt sticking to her torso as she heaved gasps of air.  She reeked of blood – in fact; most of the right side of her body was caked in it.  She looked it over, following the dark stain along her thigh and up her side to her shoulder.  Well… now there was a curious thing.  She couldn’t seem to find her arm.  She stared at the empty space, almost mesmerized, then tried to wiggle her fingers… but there were none to wiggle.  Her brain screamed in frustration at not being able to complete such a simple task; couldn’t grasp the loss of the limb.  Pain flared through her again, and she was able to pinpoint for sure that it was from her right shoulder.  Presently, her attention was drawn away from her vacant shoulder to the sounds around her.  Rain drummed down on the tent around her, keeping a steady thrumming tattoo.  Thunder boomed in the distance, but was definitely retreating, the height of the storm having been what woke her.

Where’d Athan go? Her muddled brain mused.  The thought hauled up memories of the dream and once again the emotions attacked her.  Her throat constricted and tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks before she could stop them.  She wallowed helplessly in the sadness, unfamiliar with the feeling – she’d always turned it into anger before.  But now she could do nothing but feel, unable to find the strength to stop the tears.

The tent flap was wrestled open and Lothos slogged in, looking like a drowned rat.  His hair hung in wet strands, clinging to his face and body.  His clothes were heavy and dripping with water, his boots squishing as he walked.  He looked startled as he saw that Asthura was awake.

“Ten eveka.  Sub?” he inquired gently.

You’re awake.  Are you all right?

“Tan emr loq deb.”

My shoulder fucking hurts.

“Tan dmi, tan hu deb ehb bmaj jfaeh, yes?”

Let me get dried off.  Then I’ll treat the pain and put you in some clean clothing, okay?

Asthura gave a single curt nod, tear-streaked face pale and lips drawn into a thin line.  The Elf was wise enough not to acknowledge – nor to mention – the tears as he wrung the water from his hair and tied it up.  He peeled out of his clothing, body slim and lithe, skin paler over his chest and paler still along his legs as a testament to his days in the sun.  Lothos pulled a loose pair of pants and a soft shirt from the trunk and dressed himself.  He then went about casting magik over the ground and tent edges to dry away the water from his clothes and seal the tent from the elements, effectively creating a cozy and relatively quiet shelter.  Next he rummaged through the trunk in search of the smallest clothing therein contained.  A sleeveless top that would be skin-tight on the Elf, and a pair of knee-long pants were procured and he went about matter-of-factly stripping the Kafriis from her dirtied clothes and helped her into the clean ones.  On Asthura the clothes were slightly too big but would do well enough.

“Vnama tan?” Asthura asked in confusion as Lothos laid her back on the cot.

Where am I?

“Tan pahp, jyjpam,” the Elf explained, “Tan peqa ten nama pu ja ten ohpyf tan dapam.”

You’re in my tent; I brought you here to watch over you until you are better.