Fallen and Rising [Complete]

[Melkire]

Carving.

 

He was carving, slicing off a slab of meat, sawing the knife through the shoulder muscle, and in spite of it all he was met with blissful silence. That was off. That was wrong. So he kept carving. He kept slicing. Set the point of the knife against the bone, raised up the reflex hammer, and swung into the pommel.

 

A gut-wrenching, heartrending scream. He smiled, and swung again. And again. And again. Yelling. Bellowing. Sobbing. Cursing. Cacophony. Chaos. Sweet music to his ears.

 

Then she was there, as he held the hammer high, the knife set against her heart, and her eyes were full of tears. She was his mother his sisters his friends his comrades his lovers his soulmate. She was every woman he had ever failed… and momentum brought the hammer down.

 

He bolted upright, panting, his fists clenching the sheets, the sweat poring off him in rivulets. He was drenched, and his heart was still pounding as a shaking hand pushed back through his wet hair. The knot in his throat was a hard swallow, but he managed. Eyes closed once more, he focused on his breathing, intent upon the rhythm, the tempo, until it was regular once more. Satisfied, he glanced over, reached out, and brushed the back of his hand gently down over her cheek before pushing a stray lock of hair back behind her ear.

 

Slow, careful motions brought him to the edge of one of the finer beds he’d ever slept in – the Hourglass was known for such things – and soon enough he was on his feet, digging through the armoire for his clothes and dressing at a lethargic pace. He walked over to a nearby desk, and ran his fingers over the various belts, scabbards, and loops that held his assortment, his collection, his arsenal of knives. His hand recoiled at the first touch of steel, and he grimaced.

 

“Enough.”

 

He reached for the manuscript copies on the desk, a humble bundle of papers that he’d had to send to Little Ala Mhigo for, as he lifted a small rucksack from the floor. His eyes ran over one particular passage for what must have been the hundredth time since the last sun had set.

 

Red is its color, bold as blood, for it is what it seeks to protect; what it covets to flow within one's own veins and will not allow to spill without severe jealousy.

 

One short, exasperated sigh later, he had the papers in his bag, his bag over his shoulder, and a note scrawled for his dearest, for when she woke.

 

AT HAMON’S. HAVE OUR PEARL.

 

Osric left the nutkin in the little tyrant’s nest beneath the bed, the note on his pillow, the kiss on her forehead, and the door shut and locked.

 

 

 

Old faces. Greetings exchanged, pleasantries seen to. New faces. Quick, harsh once-overs for appraisal, and the just-as-sudden softening of the features as they recognized the calluses on his hands. This was the pugilists’ guild, and pugilists were always welcome. The familiar cadences of flesh against leather and padding filled his ears, and he couldn’t help but grin.

 

A quick word with Gagaruna saw him to one of the backrooms where they maintained a number of striking dummies for private workout sessions. Once the iron doors slammed shut behind him, silence rushed in, and he was cut off. He was alone. He was alone with himself, and that had his heart racing again. He shook himself to throw off the mounting tension in his shoulders, then lowered his rucksack to the floor by the door.

 

He hadn’t worn much: white shirt, white sarouel, leather caligae. He wanted this simple. He wanted this pure.

 

He fell into the usual routine… or, at least, what had been the usual routine. Slow, methodical, more attentive to form and footwork than speed or force. It occurred to him that it had been quite some time, that it had been a while. When had he stopped? When had he stopped practicing? He cast his thoughts back through time, trying to identify just when he’d let his skills slip away from him, and found it, found that fixed point in time and space

 

Highbridge, nearly six moons ago. Highbridge, when he had pulled that trigger, when he had sworn to himself that never again would he take mercy on and spare the guilty, that never again would he allow a threat to his loved ones to walk free, that the cold finality of his steel would be the last sensation they felt in this life.

 

On Highbridge, six moons ago, he surrendered himself to his guilt, and that guilt had driven him back to the knives.

 

He shifted focus now and attended to the accuracy of his strikes as he circled the wooden figure before him. The shift in his philosophy had been just as swift: within a fortnight he had graduated from the patas to the katar, and from there it had been a mere hop, skip and a jump back into his old habits. He wondered why it had been so easy… then he blinked as he noticed, for the first time, that more than a few of his strikes were landing with the side of his hands presented against his target.

 

As if he was holding blades in reverse grips.

 

That’s what you are. That’s all you’ve ever been, and what you’ll always be. Why else would Master Rosethorne abandon you? Hells, there’s a ruttin’ crimson gemstone back at the Hourglass that’s yours, and what’s on it? The Knife. That’s how they know you. That’s how they’ll always know you.

 

That’s all you’re good for.

 

“No,” he hissed. “I don’t believe that.”

 

Yes, you do. You know better. Osric died a long time ago. It’s been Dirk ever since.

 

He struck the target with his knuckles.

 

“He didn’t believe that.” With his palms. “He left me a letter.” With the backs. “Introduction.” With his elbows. “It’s why I’m here.” With a shoulder. “It’s why I’m still alive.”

 

His breathing was ragged now, as ragged as it had been when he’d first woken this morning. He bit down and forced his eyes closed, forced himself to stillness.

 

"Da knew," he breathed. "Somehow, he knew."

 

Down he went, into the darkness, into oblivion where he was truly alone, that empty pit he’d been too scared to visit, to face. He drove out all thought, each and every single thought. One at a time, two at a time, three, four, more, he drove them out.

 

He’d sworn to put down the guilty, so why hadn’t he done for Lazarov on their first meeting, or their second? Perhaps because the man reminded him of himself… and perhaps because Roen reminded him of her. Innocence tarnished over time by harsh realities, but a single polishing away from shining just as brightly once more. It didn’t matter. He pushed it away.

 

He’d been so earnest for covert work, for skullduggery. Why had he found his time with the Red Wings so disappointing? So much time wasted. So many opportunities lost, as he’d pulled away, allowed his duties to seclude him. He’d laid aside brass for steel, knuckles for knives. Was that even the unit’s fault? Hadn’t he driven himself back to those dark depths which he’d never planned on revisiting? Perhaps he was wrong to lay blame at the feet of another. Perhaps not. It didn’t matter. He pushed it away.

 

Her. Everything always came back to her. She’d entered into his life on the tailwinds of a storm, and he’d been disheveled ever since. He’d found himself changing, conforming, felt the veil of pessimism lifted from his eyes and his soul lifted from the hells to which he’d committed it. He’d dedicated so much time and effort to understanding, to confiding, to pursuing, charming, safeguarding… he’d neglected himself. She mattered. Oh, how she mattered… but right now, she didn’t. She couldn't. Right now, he did. So he pushed her away.

 

He pushed past his work, his friends, his love, his knives. He pushed past the bodies and the blood. Then, at last, he was alone.

 

Alone. Stripped. Base. Primal.

 

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

 

Thump-thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump-thump.

 

He remembered it.

 

He felt it.

 

He craved it.

 

He slowed. He breathed. He stepped. He faltered.

 

Maybe she did matter.

 

Maybe he mattered.

 

Maybe it all mattered.

 

He moved, and as he moved a certainty grew within him, a weight of sorts, a building pressure. Hand over hand, he drove himself into the wood. Foot over foot, he flowed around the wood. The two hearts beat as one, pulsed together, and at last when he struck his foe with everything he could muster – feet, thighs, hips, waist, shoulder, elbow, wrist, and every muscle in between – he felt no pain. He didn’t give.

 

The wood did.

 

He came back to himself, as he drew his fist back from within the splintered ruins of what had once approximated a man’s chest, and glanced down at his fist as he flexed his fingers. He wasn’t shaking. His hand wasn’t shaking. No cuts, no blood, nothing.

 

”Hit me. Strike me on the chest. Go on.”

 

He turned, eyes intent on the stone wall. One, two, three, four, five steps and as he moved he aimed, struck, lashed out beyond, into and through what should have been solid rock. Instead, the stone he’d struck broke, and the resulting pieces and the dust greeted him as the impact left a small crater.

 

“…heh.”

 

He smirked as he staggered into the wall and rolled across it, slumping to the floor next to his rucksack.

 

“I can keep ‘em safe. I will.”

 

He glanced down and reached inside his bag for the next step, pulled out his small sheaf of papers, and flipped to the second page. Read the words to himself. Smiled.

 

Orange is its color, mixed of red and yellow. Will and survival mix to become desire. Desire serves as a driving force for both. Such is the cycle. Thus flows the worldly energy up from the root into the Sacral. Thus lies where the spirit keeps and molds it, until such a time when it is called. Such is the Sacral.

 

So writes Berrod Armstrong, Son of the Fist, regarding the Second Chakra.

 

“…but on m’own terms. The past can go rut itself.”

[Melkire]

Biting down on the pain. Every nerve ratcheted, every muscle straining. Teeth gritting, sliding, catching. Blood. He could taste blood. Could feel the cold, rough stone beneath the heels of his palms. Ragged breaths, whistling between his canines, hissing between his molars. There was so much pain here....

 

A fortnight. I told Gharen a fortnight.

 

Heaved with exertion. Turned his fist over until his knuckles pressed down against the hard rock. Lit a fuse that sent agony up his arm in a series of mind-blanking pangs that left his muscles inflamed, one after the other. Raised his fist. Let it fall.

 

A supernova of blinding white light shattered his consciousness.

 

 

 

When he came to, the weight was still there. Like a chain wrapped thoroughly around his gut. A weight so immense that it threatened to buckle him, to leave him a broken thing, a mere husk of a man, a shell with its very essence torn from it. That weight was suffering. Literal suffering.

 

I didn't know... I didn't know....

 

But he had. Or, at least, he had suspected. He'd misjudged, though. Miscalculated. Mis-whatever-the-ruttin'-hells. Hells. That's where he was now. Drowning in the eternal anguish and despair of hundreds. How long had these caverns been here for? How deep did this labyrinth go? He'd come here knowingly, willingly. He'd been relying on the ancient history here. He was here for its legacy.

 

He hadn't counted on so many...

 

"Th-th-the Sacral. H-here lies all the b-b-b-... BODILY desires of man... oh, gods... f-f-f-foodanddrinkandflesh, its works in tandem, IN TANDEM, oh sweet Menphina why...?"

 

Pointless drivel. He was going to die here. Here, where so many others had died, so long ago. Too soon. He'd come here too soon. He wasn't ready.

 

Balls to that. I have to be ready. There's no one else.

 

His hand flew up to his collar and tugged down, ripping the shirt, exposing himself to the cool, dank air. He was sweltering. Too much. He was taking in too much, too soon, too fast. Too late.

 

"Fulcrum. P-p-potent and un-, un-, unas-, un-, ASPECTED. Indulge. Indulgence. Indulgence and abstinence. Ssssss. Control. Release."

 

His eyes were squeezed shut, but he could almost see the words scrawled across the vellum, feel the ink beneath his fingers. Breathing. He needed to regulate his breathing. Everything else could wait. Wait. Weight. Gods, the weight.

 

One may flood oneself with aether, but to what purpose that aether is put --

 

"...that, that... that is imp-, impor-, important. G-given the w-w-w-w-will. WILL. Second... second..."

 

Wind.

 

"Second WIND, after near exhaustion. Orange is its color. Orange is its color."

 

Will.

 

"Survival."

 

Survival.

 

"Will."

 

He had it, now. Could feel it again. The pulse. Buried beneath the sorrow. Deep in the earth. He'd lost it for so long, his knees had gone numb and the pressure of his bladder was constant. He noted with surreal indifference that it was some sort of minor miracle that he hadn't just let go.

 

"Will and survival mix to become desire."

 

Desire.

 

Jameson Taeros had to die.

 

Osric pressed his forehead flat to the stone and screamed as he seized the aether of Halatali - left behind over the cycles by the horrific suffering and demise of all the beasts, slaves, gladiators, and men who had ever dwelt or fought or bled here - and dragged it up, pulled that power of the land into himself, and forced it through the second chakra.

 

He screamed.

 

No one heard him.

[Melkire]

"Soothe your ills. Raise your stamina."

 

Hands passed over hands as fingers manipulated cord, tying knot after sailor's knot with careful and practiced precision. He'd be betting his health on this tangle holding, so gods-damned right was he going to make sure that he'd done it right. A single baritone voice danced with abandon on the frigid air this morning, a lone golden melody in a clef of silence.

 

"I thought I heard the Old Man say,

'Leave her, Johnny, leave her.'

Tomorrow ye will get your pay,

and it's time for us t'leave her."

 

Chance - or fate, take your pick - had brought Master Rosethorne to him, and while his former mentor had been at a loss for a solution to the immolation of his former disciple's innards, a mere word had sent Osric scurrying after healers. Alchemy, arcanima, conjury... they all led to the same conclusion: no one knew what was wrong with him, and he'd best ask a more experienced practitioner of his order.

 

Chance - or an educated guess, take your pick - had led him to the Grindstone, and there he'd met Armstrong at last, and what the highlander had to tell him was simple. So simple that Osric should've thought of it himself. More the daft fool, him. He was a cup filled to the brim, except the cup was filled with aether, and the excess energy that was spilling over was burning him alive from the inside out.

 

"The Sacral is life."

 

"Leave her, Johnny, leave her!

Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her!

For the voyage was long and the winds don't blow,

and it's time for us t'leave her."

 

He patted the forest of knotted cord, at last satisfied with his work. He threw the heavy loop of what was rest of the line - say rather, most of it - over his shoulder, then held the bit that ran between the loop and the knots in his right hand, fingers loosely clasped around the fibers as he walked backwards across the width of Highbridge.

 

He'd soon be needing what he'd hidden here, down in the chasm where Zachary had dropped it, so many moons ago. He'd never told anyone, not even Kanaria, that he'd found his way back here, three suns after the dust had settled, just for that purpose. He always appreciated an edge, and often went out of his way to secure one for the future... and the future was now.

 

"We swear by rote for want of more,

'Leave her, Johnny, leave her.'

But now we're through so we'll go on shore,

and it's time for us t'leave her."

 

He turned at last, planted his hands on the railing opposite that with the tangle, and glanced down into the abyss with a shudder of dread. The last time he'd gone down there, he'd been scaling the cliffs with as much caution as possible... but back then, he'd only been half-alive.

 

"Live, and the Sacral will provide, for that has always been its purpose."

 

It took some doing, a few deep breaths, but at last he swallowed his fear. A small smirk grew into a broad, maniacal grin as he straightened and pushed himself back away from the railing, walking backwards again as he let the loop fall off his shoulder and into the clenched fist of his left hand, the line still firmly held in his right...

 

"Leave her, Johnny, leave her!"

 

One...

 

"Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her!"

 

Two...

 

"For the voyage was long and the winds don't blow..."

 

He sighed, and smiled again as he turned on his heel. Osric broke into a run, skipped the last few steps on the bridge, bounded up onto the railing, and pushed off, throwing himself out into open space, tumbling through the air, holding the cord in his right hand at full extension, letting the loop in his left feed his lifeline as he fell, as he twisted and righted himself, legs straightened and held out as if was ready to...

 

The line went taut.

 

"Live."

 

Ready to swing.

 

The heat of friction against his gloves burned like a son of a coeurl, as did the screaming ache in his arm and shoulder, but he held on, still feeding the line, the loop growing lighter and lighter, smaller and smaller as the river running along the canyon floor grew and grew to his eyes.

 

Those present at the outpost that morning heard a resounding whoop of exultation and sheer, unadulterated joy.