All Of Us - Part 1: Summer

Chapter 1 - The Summer Palace

"You look like you've been through hell. Like all of us."
- The Witcher (telefilm)

Close your eyes and picture a sunset. A hurricane of blues, purples, reds and yellows dance behind your eyelids. Beautiful, at first glance, as you take in the vibrant hues. But soon the deep red grows, expands till the seemingly peaceful scene shifts to bloodshed. Crimson becomes what seems to be the default, the canvas on which the other colors fight. Scarlet fills, saturates, stains your vision till there's barely space for anything else. The other colors have begun to fight, waging war on the battlefield that the sky became. At every lunge, every move, another streak of ruby smudges the sky. Ah, but there goes the indigo, beating in retreat. Fast, faster now, the violet vanishes, with a last bloodied gaze over its shoulder. Finally, the rose and amber flee, cursing and promising revenge, taking the red, so small now, away with them. Little by little, new powers take over, till not a trace of the original bright blue is left. All is a deep, deep black, announcing the beginning of an adventurous night. An incredible reversal of powers, a shift in the balance of nature, that is what a sunset truly is. So it could be compared to a sunset. Or maybe... Maybe a sunrise. A sunrise as the rebels took over the Summer Palace.

"Rebels In the Palace !"

Spots of color in the drab landscape of Guards' uniforms. There, a flash of yellow, similar to the sun. Keiti, a burst of sunshine and the group's second-in-command. She was one of those people whom you meet in the street, who smiles at you for no reason, who brightens up your day. But at that moment, she was dangerous, a killer, throwing daggers at anyone who came near. If she was a sun, right now she was burning so brightly that everyone around burnt to a crisp.

To the right, some deep green. Gail plowed her way through the enemy forces, not graceful or elegant, just focused and dedicated. Her sword gleamed red in the dawn light, her left hand gripping it as if it were the only thing between her and Death, her right hand not there.

To the left, now some blue, weaving through the enemy forces like a wave leading a flood. A bluebird named Lino in the midst of battle, singing a tune merrily.

And there- a flash of something almost supernatural that left you blinking, wondering if your mind was playing tricks. Supernatural. The perfect word to describe Dæor. Here, yet not. You had him in front of your eyes, and suddenly he was at your side, his expression grim and his bloodthirsty sword, Shadow, in your side. An assassin in every fiber of his skin, with an obsidian heart and the outfit to match. They said that he was an apprentice from Death himself, sculpted to kill.

Who knows ?

The flood made its way, leaving a scarlet trail in its wake. Gail was trying to reach him, but Lino was too fast and he was the one to reach the entrance to the palace first. As he flung open the massive double doors, a thousand closed, and a million opened. A million opportunities, possibilities. Even the sky itself seemed to still as a veritable army stared in awe at the passageway, not daring to go in.

After a few moments of silence, it was Dæor, the shadow basked in light, who stepped in first. He placed a dirty, dark, blood-caked boot on the gleaming white marble step and raised his fist. Not having uttered a word, he turned his back to the battlefield and rushed up inside, his troops hot on his heels.

They met no resistance. Any Guard with any competence was either still on the battlefield, or on the run. Servants, quick to submission, were spared. The rebels didn't expect to find anyone with hostage value - it was early springtime, the flowers were beginning to blossom and the Summer Palace was empty, apart from a few domestics. So they searched for iron and gold. Well, almost all of them.

*****

"Where is it ?" Dæor muttered under his breath. He strode down the hallways, irritated but not quite angry - yet. His palm would rub against the rough oak doors lined up after one another, pause, then push. He would peek in and move on. He must have looked into a dozen rooms, and still nothing. Where could it be ?

Suddenly, his fingertips stopped, not on a door, but on a frame. He felt it. It was here. He heaved against the set of far-too loaded double doors and stumbled into the throne room.

What hit him first wasn't the elaborate tapestries on the walls or the delicately wrought iron, nor the plush rug or the massive throne at the end of the room. No. It was just the cold. But he shook the sensation off and advanced.

When he placed his left foot on the carpet, a thrill so strong went through him he had to close his eyes. The feeling began at the heel of his foot, then worked its way up his leg, his spine, to rest between his shoulder blades and seep into his back, deep into his body, till for a second, it felt as if the pit he had been carrying in his left breast for more than half a decade was full; but the sensation ebbed away whilst the memory remained. He closed his eyes and breathed. He could do this. What he had just felt was merely a confirmation of what he had known: power, power would make it better. It could close the hole; it would mend the broken.

He continued to walk, without a glance towards the ornate decorations in the room. It was all only noble hogwash. What he was headed for, though, that was another story.

When he reached the throne, he didn't reach out to touch it immediately. He just stared, caressing it with his eyes. A part of him fluttered in awe. Granted, it wasn't the main throne, but it was still something. And reaching it was something even stronger.

His middle finger was the first one to touch the old oak wood. Like a wave, a tide of sensations flowed into him. Pain, pleasure, suffering, rage, hate, desperation... Deep down, there was also hope. But he didn't see it. A few years ago, maybe. Now, all he recognized was the feeling of power. He smiled.

"Dæor !"

He spun around and snarled: "What ?" The rebel who had called his name out had flushed cheeks framed by straight blond hair that reminded him of corn. What was she called again ? Hyamynt ? Hyalynt ? Did it matter ?

"What ?" he repeated, slower and with an extra edge of threat in his voice.

She visibly gulped and answered, a little bit of a lot of panic shining through as she licked her lips: "Dæor... Sir, there is something you need to see."

When did the Sir slip in there ? It struck him that he liked it.