Black and White

Chapter 40

The first creature to reach me is a guard, grappling with my arm, breaking the sword's course and sending the hand that holds the sword towards him.

What's going on? Why are the guards moving? I turn towards my new assailant, recognizing the red haired seventeen years old from earlier. His eyes are still wide, his arms still slightly shaking. He doesn't seem to recognize the fact that he is fighting, doesn't seem to know what's going on.

I try to make him freeze as he charges me once again, but my anger is clouding my head, the comfort of my rage ruining me. Stop, stop, stop running.

The problem is he doesn't stop, and more begin to join him, surrounding me, closing in. The young one is running the fastest though, the only one truly rushing me. Time is slow, but he is fast. He is much too fast.

Stop, stop, stop. I can do nothing, nothing, as the guard continues to run toward me. His armor doesn't hinder him, somehow. The black metal is molded to his skin in a way that allows it to bend away from the knees and elbows when needed. Leaving many inconsequential parts of his body exposed.

I swing the sword, missing the exposed flesh, a clang ringing throughout the room. The metal pulls away dented and dull, the flimsy thing barely able to hold together. He pulls his own blade, one of better quality, sharper, no designs to hinder the quality of the deadly thing, out of a leather belt wrapped tight around his armor.

The other guards are getting closer, about five of them. Pulling my arm back, I swing the sword at his knees, feeling it hit home, lodging in soft, inhuman skin. He screams as I pull my sword away, black blood staining the floor as he falls.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. The stench of the blood truly hits me now, the sounds of the young guard, rolling on the floor in pain. I drop the sword as soon as a hand grabs my arm, my breath coming in short pants, the sounds of the room going fuzzy, eyes widening, taking in everything in the room.

The boy, his hands trying desperately to staunch the flow of blood, his eyes wild in panic, his red hair stuck to his face with sweat and tears. Alaunus, his footsteps quick, his face drawn into a scowl, his hands gentle and sure as he heals him like he didn't, couldn't do for Diedre, for any of them.

I watch.

I watch the hands of the guards as they reach me, restraining me, though I have lost my fight, my string snapping, the rage that supported me burning all bridges to my goals. The white flashing power the color of a calm sky just before the storm rolls in drying up in a bright display of heat. As it goes, the feeling of it remains, reminding me of what I cannot have, of what I once was. I was powerful, I was strong, I was Amaya Lune, safe at last.

But I'm not now, neither safe nor powerful as guards pull me, forcing me to stand as I try to prevent my body from giving out.

The smell of the blood is great. So great you can taste it, though it's different than that of the house did.

There it tasted of metal, of iron and copper, but here, here it smells like the sand. Like a rock-filled floor of a lake where the water is so clear you can see the bottom even when it stretches long for thirty feet down. It smells of broken hearted pleas for someone to come back, whether it be from a distance or from the grave.

It is littered with the taste of dark soil that has long since been left alone, grown over with roots of trees that have stood for a thousand years, life that has been there so long you cannot remember when it was not. Life that's so old that it was around before the concept of living was uttered quietly through lips barely open.

The smell chokes me, wrapping itself around my throat as the sound of the room becomes a soft yarn, fuzzy, warbling softly as I watch the King pick up his dented sword, step toward me, smile at me with pointed eyes.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

I watch the cold metal tap my knees, but somehow it does not feel as though it is touching my skin, simply touching someone's skin, me an unwilling viewer. He knocks the flat of the blade against my knees, just as I had done to him before. His face is decorated by a grin showing rows of rows of disgustingly perfect teeth interrupted only by the fangs that drape over his chin.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

One last hit and I fall, my legs smashing into the floor, no pain as I simply watch myself connect with the floor. The King is speaking now, his lips moving, Alaunus nodding as he comes to stand beside him.

Where I am, watching the room away from my body, Alaunus is placed next to me, not truly, as only I know I am here, sitting directly next to him. The King places the blade away, tucking it into his scabbard.

I watch my body as the King continues speaking, Astrea coming to stand beside him, her eyebrows knitted, eyes wide, mouth parted slightly. She says something, her posture tense, as her eyes mournfully gaze upon my body. I watch her hands closely, one waving into the crowd, one falling behind her back as she crosses two fingers. They bear a striking resemblance to a twisted pair of roots that meet in an ever lasting dance, never to be seperated.

I watch as the orb is brought to her by a servant, placed upon a velvet pillow, and her staff is brought from another servant. They both kneel, present the objects and leave, scurrying away. My eyes track them to the edge of the room, where they then exit the room through a rusty door.

Astrea mutters something, throwing the orb in the air, and slamming the staff into the ground. A breath of frozen air wraps its way around my chest, rocketing myself back into my own body.

Then everything explodes.