What if want more than this petty life
of human exhaustion gives me?
What if I have dreamed
of Angel fire and demon song?
What if every hope I’ve asked for left me cold and broken,
what if I find out this whole time that I’ve been wrong?
The doubt is mine
the choice is mine–
the way you twist
the knife is mine.
This is Issue #3 of DeathWatch, Book II: tentatively called Heart Of Ilona, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find DeathWatch, the first in the series, or start from the beginning of Book II!
Happy Reading!
* * *
What had seemed like an unending wave of death had turned out to be the main assault of the Tenebrian group responsible for attempting to overthrow House Venator. With the leaders slain by Lucida, the Guardian, and their loyal followers, the rest of the sinister rebellion was crushed.
Traitors to the nation were brought into the dungeon by the dozens, and in the end, Acer found himself on his knees before his Queen, his sword put at her feet.
“I cannot even ask for forgiveness,” he said, still bloodied from fighting alongside her. “My father… I should have known about his treachery. I should have realized he would try something so foul. I led an army inside your walls, and you trusted me,” he murmured. “It worked, because my father knew what I fool I am, to want to please him so terribly,” he said darkly. “I put myself at your mercy, expecting nothing but retribution for my house’s disloyalty.”
Lucida sat on the dais, in her throne, while Jet stood beside her, avoiding the throne Immanis had used.
Gemma, Secta, loyal guards, Coryphaeus, other soldiers, other courtiers — those who supported House Venator, from the lowliest of servants to the highest officers within the city state — looked on, watching with expectant eyes.
Immanis had not been known for mercy.
Would Lucida be?
She stood, after Acer’s speech, and bent down to pick up his sword. She weighed it in her hand, swung it, and then flipped it to return it, handle-first, to the only surviving son of Lord Tenebrae.
“We stood shoulder to shoulder,” Lucida said quietly. “I have no doubt of your loyalty to me — and I have no hope of reclaiming your people, our people, in the sister-state if I bleed them of their honorable leaders. Your father has designs on my throne. Your elder brother clearly thought he was much more capable of running this nation. But I believe you will work with me, not for yourself. Am I mistaken?”
“My Queen,” Acer whispered, sitting up, back on his heels. “I will die before I betray you.”
“Take your sword, Plaga. Remain at the right hand of my Guardian. You are favored,” she promised, and the smile she wore, painted in blood, was proud and perfect.
Gemma looked almost smug, to watch her, while Secta kept his eyes mostly on Jet, who had been supplied with another mask, and wore it, hiding his expression from everyone.
One by one, the ruling houses of Ilona’s nations stepped before Lucida and bowed, knelt, paid tribute, confessed their loyalties, promised their sons and daughters, their blood, their sweat, their coin.
When it was over, Lucida went to rise, to adjourn, wanting nothing more than a bath and oblivion; she would even sleep alone, if Gemma were busy, and she knew she wouldn’t mind it in the slightest. Except —
“My Queen?” One last voice called to her, from the steps of the dais.
When she turned, she saw Coryphaeus’s face, looking up to her. He took stiff, aching steps, and as he knelt, his wounds broke open. His skin was ash — he had bled over the last forty-eight hours, not slept but blacked out, eaten nothing, had nothing to drink, but fought and killed and struggled.
He, like Jet, was still fresh from the Hunting Ground.
To look on his face was to see her brother’s as he knelt over him. Immanis might have killed Coryphaeus, seemed to be about to, when the Westlander attacked and drove them both over the edge.
“Speak,” she said to Coryphaeus, showing no love.
“I am Legatus–”
“I know very well who you are, Aecus,” Lucida said, deliberately not using his title. “What are you still doing here? This was a gathering for loyal followers.”
Pained, Coryphaeus nodded, saying, “If you question my loyalty to Ilona, look back at the telecast for the hunt. I knelt to him. I knelt to your Guardian. I kneel to you. If you believe me disloyal, if you wish my death in payment for his Majesty’s, it would be a poor trade, but I would die a thousand times over if it would return him to you. I have one life only, however — but it is yours. Spend it now, if you like, or keep it, and I will fight for you. For Ilona. I will gather armies and I will fight back against those who murder our citizens. I will wear the dust of Ilona’s soil and be washed in its rains and I will feel the pulse of its people in my veins. I am… I am not a good follower. I am full of doubt, and I am full of faults and failings. But one of them is not disloyalty.”
Lucida was silent, taking it all in; she narrowed her eyes and glanced to Jet, saying, “You were with him. Chased him. Hunted him. You knew my brother’s thoughts on his betrayal.”
Jet nodded, looking at Coryphaeus, his compassion hidden by the mask on his face. Quietly, he said to Lucida, “As our brother loved me, for choosing to serve, so can I see the love in Legatus Aecus. This is a man of principle. This is a man who does as he believes he must, even if and when it seems wrong to others. He will do what he fears. He will do what is asked, if he can. I will get no false loyalty from him.”
“He tried to keep something that was not his,” Lucida said lowly, dangerously.
“It was not money. It was not lands. It was a slave that Immanis had discarded after play,” Jet returned, putting a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “And when he had realized his error, he would have paid with his life. Immanis promised if he survived the hunt, he would be freed. He did survive, but he came back. To me. Remained with me so that I would not be alone when I woke. He offered me his life then, and he offers it now. It would be a great waste to throw away such loyalty.”
“I agree,” Lucida said, after a moment. “Indulgent as I have been, I am not prone to waste. I must recognize truth, even as I grieve for my Immanis.” She looked to the kneeling man and said, “You are spared, Aecus. And reinstated as an officer, Legatus. Sugite. Stand at the right hand of my Guardian, for you are a man of honor, and you will hold such a place in my household.”
“My Queen,” Coryphaeus whispered, his eyes wide. “I…”
Lucida’s response was as proud as she was, but the hint of a smile on her lips made Jet smile as well, in spite of himself. “Legatus,” she said gesturing for him to rise, and come to stand near her. “A Queen does not repeat herself.”
* * *
It’s hard to get good rest, lately.
She wakes up every little while, but never where she had been. And sometimes, she doesn’t even remember having gone to sleep.
Sometimes there are bruises.
Sometimes there is blood.
She rubs at the pink spots on her skin, the chafed rings crossing the bony juts of her wrists, wondering if she’s made the area raw herself, or if it is evidence of something… Else.
Her stomach growls, but every meal is brought back up. Why eat?
She stopped looking at herself in the mirror long ago. Those dark circled eyes only accuse.
This is not going well, she thinks. This is not going well at all — but when should she tell him?
Should she tell him?
What if he already knows?
This is Issue #2 of DeathWatch, Book II: tentatively called Heart Of Ilona, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find DeathWatch, the first in the series, or start from the beginning of Book II!
Happy Reading!
* * *
“I shall never forget it,” Acer said, swallowing roughly, wiping sweat and blood from his eyes. He pulled back from the door, watching it shake as the men on the other side battered against it. He turned and looked back at Secta and Gemma, who tended to one another in the back corner, Secta pouring Gemma a small glass of aetheris, Gemma binding Secta’s wound. “But now what?” Acer wondered, looking to her.
“Now? Lucida said, setting aside her knife and moving to braid and wind up her hair to get it out of her face, tucking curls behind her ears and knotting them low against her neck. She tied the flowing scarves of her top down tight against her breasts and pulled her skirts up between her legs to tie them off like breeches. She selected a blade off the wall and tested its weight and balance in her hand.
“Now we take my Palace back,” she said, shrugging. “There are weapons aplenty, here. We simply catch our breath, open the doors back up, and kill them as they attempt to enter. I will rout the traitors of my kingdom, even if it is one slit throat at a time,” Lucida explained.
Eyes wide, Acer said, “There are too many, my lady, even for a woman as talented as you.”
“I do not remember asking you about my capabilities. Are you doubting your own? You may speak to those,” Lucida snapped. “Gemma. You are well-trained. If your head has stopped spinning, get a blade. Secta, honor your master, and pick up a sword. We will fight like the Ilonans we are.”
“Forgive me,” Acer said, his skin flushed, darkening. “I am not used to a woman as powerful as you, I–”
“Get used to it,” Lucida said, lifting her chin. “Stay used to it, Plaga. I am Lucida Venator, Sister to Immanis, Wife to the Guardian, Daughter of A Thousand Suns. And now I am Queen Venator as my mother before me, and I will see my enemies bloodied and burned before I see them touch one shred of my beautiful nation.”
“Yes, Majesty,” Acer said, impressed, smiling with determination, with love for his ruler.
Gemma knocked back the glass of aetheris she’d been given, and moved to tie up her top and skirts as well, gritting her teeth.
Secta strapped knives to her wrists, and put a sword at her hip, then selected his own sets of blades. Though he was meant as a page, a groom, a young man built for service, for honoring requests, he too had been trained — his life was only his to give in service of the Guardian. Gemma helped him fasten the sheaths to his wrists and calves. They kissed one another’s cheeks when they were done, and formed a wall by the door.
“Open it,” Lucida commanded Acer.
“We should let them exhaust themselves against it,” Gemma said.
“Then we will not be able to close it if we, ourselves are exhausted again,” Lucida said, dark eyes flashing. “Open. It.”
Acer nodded and lifted the bar. He danced aside from the opening, and all four of them bared blade and teeth as traitors stepped over the threshold, attacking all at once.
“Vivat Ilona! Vivat Venator!” Lucida cried, and the other three echoed her.
Though the treacherous enemy had slain many palace guards, others were still fighting. They heard Lucida’s cry and their strength was renewed. They pressed against the onslaught of traitorous soldiers — men that Acer was ashamed to have known, ashamed to have led.
He wondered if the army his father bestowed upon him was disloyal, to a man.
And then he didn’t have time to wonder, because he was fighting for his life alongside the others.
The rallying cry continued; Lucida danced into the fray, quickly dispatching soldiers, her sword carving into flesh without hesitation, screaming, “VIVAT ILONA!”
Secta, Gemma, Acer, and her Palace soldiers cried back, “VIVAT VENATOR!”
In the pitched battle, it was hard to keep track of who was who — knives and swords would go through ally as easily as enemy — but at one point, it seemed as though the shadowy uniform of the Tenebrian soldiers simply filled the hall outside the war room.
Until Lucida’s call rang out once more. “Vivat Ilona!”
Breathless, her three companions were about to cry out in solidarity, when a roar of defiance came bellowing in return.
“Lucy!”
Upon hearing the sound, Lucida cut through the soldiers with renewed strength. She laughed as she danced through the clang and clash of sword, ducked under swinging maces, leapt out of reach of thrown knives —
— and met, face to face, with her bloodied, battered, beautiful — “Black Stone,” she said, laughing.
In the midst of the fight, after pulling his sword from the face of a fallen attacker, Jet knelt at her feet, bowing his head.
Coryphaeus darted past them, shifting to continue his fights; he was every bit the warrior, assisting the remaining palace guards in protecting Lucida, letting Jet and Lucy have a moment to speak.
She paused, as well, heedless of the death surrounding them, and laid her hand on Jet’s shoulder, then reached to slide it through his hair.
“Forgive me,” he whispered.
“No,” Lucida murmured.
He looked up at her, his eyes shining, wet — abject misery there. “Lucy,” he said, pleading. “Forgive me. Please.”
“No,” she whispered, and there was nothing but love on her face.
He closed his eyes, resigned, agony painting him more completely than any house patterns might have tried.
“I cannot forgive you,” Lucida said softly. “For you have done no wrong. You have died for Ilona, and you will die for her again. You have died for Immanis. You will die for me. Over and over. You will die for every Ilonan, Jet, my Guardian, my caro, my love.” She stroked his cheek, and leaned down to kiss his forehead. “We will grieve our Immanis when this is done. And we will avenge him. But for now, we fight the enemy within, and for that fight, my precious black stone, you must be strong. Surgite, Jet. It is time.”
Jet nodded, rising, golden eyes burning as he turned back toward the oncoming Tenebrians.
Lucida lifted her sword high and called, “Vivat Ilona!”
The returning cry resounded with the addition of the Guardian’s roar.
“VIVAT VENATOR!”
* * *
Shaking hands lit a Djarum black; the crazy-haired girl looked around herself in the dark, tried to get her bearings by the light of a battered Zippo. She inhaled, exhaled, and flicked the cover back over the flame, putting herself back into darkness.
“Okay then, Jones, what did we get ourselves into this time?” she wondered. “We’re not tied up. Headache, check. All my limbs? Check. Naked? Nope. Bleeding? Doesn’t seem like it. Got my bag, got my smokes.” She ran her hands over her body, patting, checking, searching for wounds, for signs, for things that were hers she might have with her. “No bloody fucking mobile you daft fucking bint, Christ,” she sighed, sounding more irritable, less terrified than any young woman might’ve, when faced with the idea she was probably recently kidnapped.
Grumbling, muttering, putting her free hand to her pounding head once she got all the way to her feet, she sounded more like a creaking old man than a young woman of dubious teenage years.
She stared down at her feet in the darkness, frowning. She felt shorter. Weirdly vulnerable. The cement was cold as fuckon her toes. “No boots?” she said to herself. “So… What. I’ve been kidnapped by rogue cobbler elves who…. Wanted to…. Fix my shoes?” A wave of dizziness forced her right back down to her knees. “Fuck,” she breathed, dropping out the cigarette, shuddering as red stars encompassed her vision.
It was then she remembered the car accident, the cabbie, the stroller. She saved a baby. An actual baby. She did.
Then what? She went to cross the alley, on her way back to coffee and biscuits. Some guy asked for directions, and against her better judgment, she was feeling good about herself, and she leaned in and offered.
“And then he had me, and I was stuck,” she said aloud, moving to sit back on her haunches. “And you’re really fucking stuck now, aren’t you? Bloody idiot,” she muttered, shaking her head. She carefully fished the cigarette back from the cement floor and took a long, hard drag, letting the nicotine rush soothe the pounding in her head.
God, Mondays were shit.
