The crash wiped out everything from the past six months. When the crew discovered the error logs, they could only think of one reasonable solution: they cannibalized the alpha, pulling him out of his connection chair in a fit of rage, leaving him gasping on the floor like a fish out of water, his eyes rolling, his mouth open and shut, open and shut. No one knew how far they had gone since all the nav settings were blank, and once they had crossed into the dead zone there was no way for them to call out for a beacon response. The last several triads that had gotten over the line had never gotten home – everyone remembered the encounter at sunset dock. It was the best kind of warning you could get, having those deaths broadcasted right into your newsfeed.
Scars
How long had it been? Eighteen years? He should be in his fifties by now, but age hadn’t touched him in that way. Not physically, at least. With the effects of everything else, there weren’t any lines to define his years, no spots or marks or stray weals, moles, or evidence of flaw. Instead, everything he’d see lay hidden in his blue eyes, hungry and aching, and had collapsed itself, sucking light and life and everything down, a ravening, screaming beast ready to explode, to go supernova behind the twin too-blue of his eyes.
People sometimes remarked on their color, but usually only to be polite, wanting to say something, after they’d found themselves staring. When someone caught his gaze, he never turned away, but allowed them the chance to keep looking, wondering if they’d ever see past the masks on masks. Wondering if they would try. Imagining that they wouldn’t. Forgiving them, in general, when they didn’t.
He sat in the dim room, as he’d been doing more and more these days, staring at his hands. He turned them over and over, looking for scars, looking for the marks of memory that should be there, the signs that he’d lived a life, lived any life, lived at all. Signs that the world had affected him in some fashion, and shaped him, made its mark.
He found none.
Frustrated, he got up, and slowly began to make his way around the house, as he often did during these night-time sojourn. He paced around looking for signs of life, any life. Signs that he had affected the world in some fashion, and shaped it, made his mark.
He found several.
He looked at their sleeping forms and for each one his eyes rested upon, his heart broke a hundred thousand times. Each sweet face similar to the last, innocent in bed, placid features smoothed by sleep. All these little ones, perfect and dreaming, were what had changed him irrevocably, irreparably.
They were his scars.
Restless Fragment
He awoke on the operating table, strapped down masked surgeons quietly murmuring their own language as the blue white lights bore down on him. The air smelled of antiseptic and blood.
He opened his mouth to scream, but the anaesthesiologist put a clear mask over his mouth and nose, and as he breathed in, everything felt muddy and slow. His eyes clouded, but he could still hear the doctors talking.
“…difficulty keeping him under…”
“No wonder, considering everything else we’ve had to do.”
“…hoping to insert the operative back into the mission…”
“…if the seizures persist, they’ll have to scrap it…”
He couldn’t imagine what they were talking about, operatives and missions, but when they mentioned seizures, he tried harder to focus. He’d gone to the doctor because he’d begun having these strange muscle tics. His original doctor had said they were little more than restless leg syndrome, and told him he should get more regular exercise, and a better sleep schedule.
Then the doctor’s office called him back that afternoon, and he had to go in for a second appointment, where a nurse he’d never seen before told him he could receive a small series of anti-inflammatory injections to quell the symptoms. He wasn’t really a fan of exercise, and he had as regular a sleep schedule as he could get, so the idea of a quick fix was perfect to him.
She gave him the first shot, and told him to lie back, as occasionally, people would feel dizzy as a side effect. “It only lasts a moment,” she told him, smiling faintly. He laid down easily enough, smiling right up at her, and then the world went black and silent, and couldn’t help but feel a vaguely hysterical giggle escape him as he wondered if he’d remembered to shave well this morning, and if the pretty nurse would notice if she had to take his pulse, now that he was fainting.
He woke again (which when is this?) in the exam room, with his doctor looking over a few charts. He sat up quickly, but felt himself grey out again, and his physician immediately came over and steadied him.
“Whoa, whoa! Hold on there, David,” Dr. Robinson chuckled. “You gave us a little scare, there. You were down for the count when Sheila gave you your shots. We just let you have a little nap.”
“A nap?” David said, and he cleared his throat and licked his lips. There was a strange taste on the back of his tongue — sweet and antiseptic. “I’m sorry, Doc. Guess that whole ‘get better sleep’ really is something I oughta look into.”
“Don’t worry — at this point, now that you’re awake, as soon as you feel steady, you can head on out and visit the check-out desk. I’d advise lunch and a relaxing afternoon. No heavy machinery and all that,” the man said kindly.
David tried to remember if Dr. Robinson’s face was one of those in the surgery room, covered by the white masks.
He couldn’t.
Part Seven
When Nine Trees heard Medowin’s summons, he was in the midst of helping Laila pack. She had gone to her room to find suitable packs for carrying, and he was actually nibbling on the leftovers from breakfast, humming to himself, though he should have been finishing up morning chores so that things would be set to rights before their journey.
He heard the summons in his heart a smile washed over his features. They would leave soon, and Laila would understand. He turned and was about to join her, to tell her, when there came a disturbance from down the lonely road that led to Laila’s home.
He heard the sound of horses’ hooves as someone approached the gate of the cottage, and went to the window, curious at the sound of visitors, for though Laila was much beloved by the townsfolk for her wares, she was happy by her lonesome, and did not have many that came to call.
He supposed it was the way the riders leapt the gate, or perhaps their armor and swords, or the way the horses frothed pink from hard riding, or the way the men dismounted and marched toward the front door that made him quite certain this was no ordinary house-calling.
When the knock came to the door, he opened it without timidity, and at least one of the men was shocked to find Laila not alone.
“Hie, stranger! Who are you to open a woman’s door like this, as if it were your own?” one of the men cried. He stood before Nine Trees in armor of glistening black, looking much like he were some carved figure of obsidian.
“Hie, rider,” Nine Trees answered amiably enough. “Who are you to come pounding into a woman’s yard to frighten the beasts and knock upon the door only to greet your host with such questions?” he said in return.
“We have come for the pie-woman, who has neither paid her tax nor sworn her fealty,” the rider finally said roughly. “Send her out.”
“I am very sorry, but she is busy, as she shall be for some time next,” Nine Trees said most politely. “Would you care to call another day?”
“Fool!” the rider snapped, pulling a sword and leveling it at Nine Trees, who still did not move. “We have come for her, and you shall send her out, so that I may drive her back with us, running and muddied behind the horses like the bitch she is.”
Hardly had the rider finished his words when Nine Trees moved, and it was thus that Laila found something to let her believe in the young man’s words. All his tales had seemed of riddles and mystery, powers beyond her comprehension, but as she stepped back into the main room from where her bed laid, she saw the confrontation at her door. Nine Trees’ only motion was to lift his hand and with two fingers push the blade aside easily, singing out one clear note as his fingertips trailed down the blade.
The weapon became a wilting vine of morning glory, and fell from the rider’s hand, useless, to the front flags.
“What sorcery is this?” the riders cried, reining back their horses to look upon Nine Trees and the woman past him, in the kitchen. “Who are you, wizard, that you display such treachery, the dark arts, as you have?” the rider snarled, lifting from his belt a long black knife with a curved, wicked blade.
“I am Nine Trees. Sent of Medowin, Last Child of Raduli, First Child of –” the young man murmurs.
“Blasphemy!” Hesitant to deal with things not of their understanding, the riders backed away, glaring hatefully at the young man and the woman behind him. “The gods no longer walk the earth, and the only ones who speak for them are the priests!” the armored man with the knife said loudly. “Let us in to see the woman, or you’ll be dragged back as well!”
“Perhaps you will be kinder, then, and we might set out plates and talk like people do, when meeting,” Nine Trees said easily enough.
The men laughed harshly at such words. Their leader, suddenly noticing Laila through the door, growled to her, “Perhaps you will set out a better fare for us than shall be found on plates, witch child, and we will tell the Lord we could not find you, eh?” He moved to dismount his horse, and his company laughed with him, dark and arrogant.
“You will have nothing of this house,” said Nine Trees angrily. “You will have nothing of this woman,” he said.
“Get back, boy,” the rider snarled. He reached for the sword at his hip that was not there.
“Are you looking for this?” Nine Trees wondered. And with that, Laila watched as the young man stooped and retrieved the thing at his feet. No longer a withered vine, but a long sword of gleaming steel once more, it whined as Nine Trees lifted it to force the tip up through a gap in the rider’s armor. Scraping metal against metal through the warm resistance of flesh, the blade bit deeply into the leader’s vitals, and he had not time for a scream as he slumped into Nine Trees arms, his breath leaving him.
Wide eyes stared at Laila, over the shoulder of the young man who had only just yesterday given her a full gold for her market-lot. She supposed she might have screamed had she had any thought left in her head.
The riders drew their swords, meaning to advance upon the young man who slid the body to the ground and left the sword in it. He stood, blood upon his clothes, his hands, and looked at them without fear, without fury, that cold hardness in his eyes gone to grief. One single note sang he, and the riders found their swords were also vines, as useless as their leader’s had been.
“Go now,” Nine Trees said softly. “Take this… thing with you,” he whispered, gesturing to the body, “and come not again to this house, or I shall place a morning’s glory through your hearts, as well, if you have any left to speak of. Go, now,” he told them. “For my only mercy was to make this man’s death as quick as possible, and if you remain here, you shall find that mercy exhausted.”
Uncertain not of the need to leave but of the idea that they could do so quickly enough, the men reclaimed the body of their captain and retreated, leaving the gate open as they took their horses back through.
“Who are you?” Laila whispered anxiously as the young man came back into the kitchen, shutting the door and going to wash the blood from himself in the kitchen bin.
“I am Nine Trees,” he answered quietly, the sound of his voice thick with grief. “Sent of Medowin,” he whispered, plunging his hands into the cold water. “Last Child of Raduli, first child of Sarad. And murderer, it seems.”
Part One — Part Two — Part Three — Part Four — Part Five — Part Six — Part Seven — Part Eight — Part Nine — Part Ten — Part Eleven
Part Six
It was the same as it had been nearly fifty years earlier, with perhaps a new coat of white wash on some fences, different children, children of children of children that ran through the streets that Medowin had walked some time ago, and she could see in their faces the faces of their father and grandfathers, and as she passed them and nodded, more than one stopped in bewilderment and awe, wondering at the queenly figure, knowing somehow that they had seen her before, and yet when they spoke of her with one another, not one could agree on what she looked like, be it fair or dark, grey-eyed or brown, tall or short, but each believed her to be royalty, and hoped to one day see her again, so impressive was her presence.
As Medowin headed for the inn, she felt a catch on her cloak, and turned to face an older woman, stooped and grey, who seemed to be falling and using Medowin’s cloak to stand up. She reached out to touch her, smiling warmly, fondly, saying, “A bright morrow to you, goody. I’m sorry if I tripped you up.”
“Are you sorry?” the woman said, almost bitterly, still holding Medowin’s cloak in a claw-like hand. Hers was the face of tragedy and anguish, that of one who has seen more than her fair share of grief. “Are you, witchwoman?”
Shocked, Medowin tried to draw away, but the power in that vise-like grip was more than she’d prepared for. “Are you ill?” Medowin wondered, frowning.
“No; you have tripped me up,” the woman said, her voice lower now, the anguish in her tone directed toward Medowin.
“For that I say, again, I beg your forgiveness,” Medowin murmured, but as she spoke again, she was interrupted by the old crone.
“You will have it, if you can answer me one question,” the woman said, still clutching Medowin’s cloak as they stood there in a bustling market halfway across the world from where Nine Trees was waking to the scent of Laila’s breakfast mealmaking.
“I shall do my best,” Medowin murmured civilly, not understanding the woman’s ire.
“My boy,” the old woman began. “My son. You took him. I know this. You can deny it all you like, but you took him, years ago. More than two score. He was firstborn, and our only son. You took him, and my husband is long dead, never remembering the boy whose eyes were his own. His sisters, girls he helped watch after, would have protected when my husband was killed… they know nothing of him. Only I live and know this loss, thief.”
“Thief?” Medowin said, looking shocked, putting a hand to her own throat, as though to help free her breath, which felt tight.
“Yes, thief, for you have taken away my son from me, and though I have long known of this, I know not of his fate. I ask, witch, thief, perhaps murderess, what has become of him? Where is the boy I carried and sang to? Where is my son? To what end did you spirit him from the hearts and minds of his family? Is he well? Has he had children of his own, and they children? Where is this branch of my family tree you broke away, to leave my heart of it rotted, sick for the loss of him?” the woman wailed.
Medowin was grey-cold with shock and wrath at being spoken to in such a fashion; she beheld the woman, the mother of the boy she’d found so long ago, and taken to be her student and companion. “You were not supposed to remember,” was all she could think to say. “You were supposed to forget.”
“A mother’s love is not forgotten,” the crone said bitterly, still holding tightly to Medowin’s cloak. “You will tell me now, for I am soon to die, and I would have this known to me. I would know of him, of my son, witchwoman, for you have taken what was not yours, and you have left me much bereft.”
“He is well, woman,” Medowin finally answered. “He is well and safe, protected and strong. He has not grown more than five years in the fifty he has been gone,” she murmured. “He is without wife or child, but he is well. Alive and well. Does that satisfy you?”
“It does not, and yet it must,” the woman said in return. “Sarad be praised, for my son is alive and well. For that, I will not beg Sarad to strike you, but neither will I ask of him aid in forgiveness of this wretched thing you have done. Thief. Thief!”
“Begone, old thing!” hissed Medowin. “I have given you your answer, now leave me be. You were made stronger for the giving of your son to me. He was needed in my service.”
“He was needed in his home,” the woman said quietly, releasing Medowin’s cloak. “He was needed in my heart. Your greed and surety in your right to steal of my family makes me weak with anger,” she whispered. “May you seek to keep him always at your side, and may you lose him as I have, but remember him, as I have. May you not forget, sorceress, and may it break your heart each moment you pass a stranger and wonder what his face may have become had he been with you the whole time that you might see his growing. May you lose him, and may you be unable to forget.”
Medowin turned and fled; though she knew the old woman had no power to wield, she quailed inwardly at the display of maternal anger. The crone’s words echoed in her head, a refrain that would not die away, and she called to Nine Trees, summoning him from where he spoke with Laila, wanting him near so that she could soothe herself with his presence, and take heart from his nearness.
Part One — Part Two — Part Three — Part Four — Part Five — Part Six — Part Seven — Part Eight — Part Nine — Part Ten — Part Eleven