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Tuesday 14 December 2021

A Requiem From Winter Past: Chapter 2

AGE WARNING:
This work is one of dark nature. If you're below the age of 16, then you're better off reading something else. I don't profess to follow the rules of my country where only foreigners like G.R.R Martin and Miura Kentaro can write dark fiction.


A Requiem From Winter Past
~The Wolf, Lion, And Maiden Fair~
Chapter 2-The Lion And His Dream

"A dream is made of two things: The sweetest nectar and the most bitter truth."
~Araea eos Clochneid

)0(

Rhian Morris is clearly annoyed, a shout as loud as a lion's roar sending a jolt through his heart and into the head. Just when everybody was sound asleep, the greatest idiot alive shattered their peace. A forceful grip pulls the dreamer off his bed, his object of wrath sprawled face-first on the wooden floor. Greeted by sapphire eyes wide open, every recruit sends his glowering regard to a sandy blond of average looks.

“Erm... it's a dream, no?”

Cale Ryvers gives a sheepish grin, his brown shorts and a white collarless shirt mirroring what the rest are wearing.

“You're obviously having a nightmare,” snaps his closest friend with a growl and grimace, his fiery hair a reflection of anger. “To be straight, I don't give a flying shit on why you're screaming like someone shafted by a ten-foot pole. But for the love of the entire Holy Quintet, don’t wake us up!”

“Did I really scream that loud, Marv?”

Running a hand through his cropped blond hair, Cale’s question becomes the fuel feeding a simmering fire of annoyance.

“If a mutt can't bark, it’s not one.” snarls Marvas Creek, his hands seizing Cale by the front of his shirt, “You better pray our bunk officers won't end up hearing a stuck pig screaming. Ever wondered how the gods judge an annoying moron?”

For the first time in his life, Cale feels like a swine ready for slaughter. An image conjured itself into his mind, countless knives stuck in his body playing a macabre game. For some reason, castration feels like a better option.

“I get the picture.”

“The picture of a stuck pig.”

With a retort, the redhead cursed with a history of being an accomplice in every misdemeanour silently prays for a miracle. Despite being one to scoff at the idea of divine intervention, Marvas already accepted this to be the only solution to Cale’s buffoonery.

“Why are all of you standing here?”

A question hollered cuts swiftly into every listener’s ears, its impact a beacon of warning. Fifteen lads hastily stand in ranks of three before their bunk officer, his sturdy frame decked in padded armour.

“Marvas Creek and Cale Ryvers! Why are you not standing at attention?”

“Sorry, Sir! We’re way too engrossed in teaching our friend a lesson on how civilisation works.”

Grett Mains shakes his head in amusement, taking charge of the infamous Fifth Unit is either the greatest joke or cruellest jest. Granted troublemakers belong to the minority, but seasons in the military taught the brunette fighter how to be a pragmatist. A few rotten apples are enough to spoil a crateful, let alone a unit of living absurdities among an army.

“You're crazy beyond cure, Marv! Why mention civi...”

A slap across the head cuts short Cale’s response, Marvas is in no mood for mercy.

“Shut up! You'll get us all shafted.”

Delivering a wry smile conceived by well-humoured nature, Grett Mains doesn’t have to be a genius to know the answer. Cale Ryvers has developed a notorious reputation ever since he assaulted a judge and an acquitted rapist on the same day, an iron stick his weapon of choice.

“It’s only natural for people to have nightmares.”

Exaggeratedly clearing his throat, Grett continues his speech.

“But no more heroics! The Fifth Unit’s reputation isn't everybody’s fault, but I also know any member of the minority has a tendency to beat up rapists and figures of authority. Understand me, laddie bucks?”

The youths under his charge sing a song of relief inside, the jaws of Seven Hells finally giving up the chase. They could have easily been done in ten times over, each individual making a mental note to buy himself a carving knife in case an idiot decides to do something shocking again.

“Listen up! With all things said, prepare yourselves for the roll call. Dawn is nearing, may the roar be with us! Understand?”

With his proclamation done, a grinning Grett Mains sweeps a right hand dramatically across.

“Yes, Sir!”

Grett leaves the bunk as vigour makes its premature entrance, every resident’s need for slumber lost. Random chatter soon supplants every pair of bleary eyes, no exception is seen.

“It's a good thing to have nice bloke Grett as our bunk chief. Definitely luckier than me playing buff poker with those idiots from Wearsor.”

“You hypocrite. When was the last time a cretin beat up an intelligent person from Wearsor or Tynis?”

“Last week? Or was that last month? You need to tell me, Marv.”

“Cale Ryvers, I swear you’re asking for…”

Before Marvas can finish voicing his thoughts, the morning bell tolls. Anticipation washes over Cale, his passionate grin worn like a badge of pride. The sandy blond cracks his knuckles, inner fire coursing inside. He spent four rigorous seasons in the Mersey academy, the life he badly wanted begins to unfold. This is the prologue to a hero's tale, the beginning of a story. The bathhouse is to be his next destination, the banner of Lionian Brethren emblazoned inside mind and heart.

)0(

Breakfast is a fare of eggs and toasted bread, the weekly addition of bacon something all anticipate the next day. Officers and recruits dine alike, their seats placed side by side. Regulars steer clear from such practice, for this is an act earning scorn. They call it a rarity, an insult to the military. The Lionian Brethren would have none of it, their penchant for causing the occasional trouble always appreciated by the smallborne. Arrests beget only confinement worth a week or two, things used to be worse before new laws prohibiting vigilantism were enforced. They belong to the smallborne more than any other Hallenian, status and rank can burn in the Seven Hells for all they care. Peddlers of rumours whisper at times the Emperor is unwilling to rein them in, a laughable tale since Antios III is known as the Iron Yew for a reason. Their motto would always stay unchanged, an obnoxious insult to the rich and elite: Never the merit of blood, only the merit of pride.

“Not bad at all given that I've tasted shit before.”

With a quip and an off-tune whistle, Cale’s plate is cleared and returned.

“This isn’t Tynis where not even the Holy Quintet know what their cooks are smoking before lighting the stove,” chuckles Marvas, his foul mood dissipated. “There's a bit of time before we gear up, so why not a little bant?”

“I agree. Beater and...”

Cale Ryvers promptly receives his due for outspoken enthusiasm, a punch across the back of the skull his reward.

)0(

“Are you thinking with your arse?” snaps a wrathful Marvas, his red hair ruffled in frustration. “Who told you to out ourselves? Do you even know what that nickname means?”

“Calm down, Marv!”

“I suspect the only way for me to do that is to roast you alive. I know Cale Ryvers is Beater, but are you so obsessed with letting the entire Teslaide know my nickname?”

"Erm… yes? You’re good at pleasing girls and Elys is one."

“You should've accepted Adarl's request for marriage when you got the chance. Shaft her and at least you won’t leave this world pathetically. A right shame she made that offer when we’re too young to beat people up.”

“Adarl?”

“Yes, Adarl. Anything wrong with my cold hard truth?”

With eyebrows raised and a question asked, Marves’ annoyance increases an irate tone.

“That pretty serving girl at Uncle Chard's inn?”

“Not just an ordinary idiot, huh?” sighs the redhead, exasperation wearing him down like an insatiable lover. “You blind arsehole, which Adarl are we talking about? Yes, I did see that beautiful girl. Slim and surely a looker. A pity she got a small stack.”

“Well, that’s Adarl.”

"Are we talking about the same person, you retarded bastard? You better don't tell me a different Adarl took your virginity."

No sooner a sardonic barb left his lips, shock dawns upon Marvas Creek. Realisation seizes him, a gaping look revealing something he'd rather die than admit to. If there's a unique trait in Adarl everyone knows, it'd be a mole below her eye as if it's more of a teardrop than a birthmark.

“Wait a holy moment, please don’t tell me…”

“I was about to tell you I saw her last month during our final trench leave!" grins Cale with a victor’s look, his mischievous smile feeding the redhead a massive slice of humiliation. “Can you believe she recognised me first?”

I must be hearing things... I must be hearing things. Seriously, that stick-thin ugly duckling Adarl?

“Oh and one more thing, Marv. I didn't shaft her. Not in the past and not recently.”

)0(

The Empire’s underbelly is never for the weak and ignorant, there are always more than a few dark corners and alleys. Ominousness cast itself over every lane, many robbers lie in wait. Smugglers haggle brazenly with buyers, no tavern is a stranger to the darkest sins. Fittingly so, such a place is known as a nether district. This is where money and power speak the loudest, a place where ruthlessness reign.

“So how’s the business?”

No woman should ever be comfortable before lecherous leers, yet not a finger is laid on Adarl Tayne. Unlike its counterparts, the Coral Sea would not hesitate to throw out patrons guilty of starting fights or worse. Tales of barmaids raped are common, its keeper not interested in adding one more name to an unwanted list.

“Closing by autumn. It's a good thing I was informed before you decided to risk your body.”

Why Lukas Broun would ever wind down a successful business is anyone's guess, for the Coral Sea's intolerance towards lawlessness is always the most attractive draw. Not every patron has the hobby of strangling his neighbour, violence is only enjoyable to those not at the receiving end.

“Tell me what you know about Cale,” says Adarl as she sips her drink, an offer of hospitality on the house. This is no ordinary brandy, her experience in discerning taste recognising it to be of Histalonian craft. Assuming Lukas was being truthful, only the gods know how he manages to secure his stock constantly. Not all things expensive is good, but at least a good drink is bound to cost significantly more.

“Me? Why always me? You should be asking those more righteous than a knave.”

“I just need to know what happened between the two of you four seasons ago.”

“Let me assure you Cale is my friend,” answers Lukas, a smirk and wagging finger taunting Adarl. “Unless he desires it, I'm not going to get him into trouble. Let alone myself.”

“I heard that place was where the village of Redcart used to be. He could have asked Marv along, but he didn't.”

Adarl’s reply and expression tell the same tale, there are things the willowy brunette has to know. She witnessed before another Cale Ryvers, someone resembling an animal of justice instead of that clueless boy holding her heart captive long ago.

Lukas starts laughing aloud, the attractive lad courting more frustration from an equally attractive lass.

“Which means he trusts me more than his best friend? A good thing Marvas Creek isn't around to hear you say that. He’s a decent brawler. Unfortunately, he’s too honourable to understand fights are mostly won through a knife in the gut."

“Marv injured himself.”

Her composure fraying faster than an arrow loosed, Adarl is in no mood for pointless talk.

“An amusing accident involving a tree. He shouldn't have done something stupid to impress Elys,” replies Lukas, his mirth the answer to Adarl’s retort. “She'd still warm his bed willingly for the night, stupidity or no stupidity.”

Tell me what's going on back then for the Holy Quintet's sake!

“Cale wanted to confront his past. A past which he has no idea about.”

His visage turning sombre with a sigh, Lukas leans against a shelf of liquor bottles.

“But if he can't...”

Dismissive wave cutting off words of concern, Lukas caresses Adarl's chin much to her disgust. She has never taken a liking to Lukas Broun, her disdain nothing to do with his preference towards men. He is always one step ahead of the rest, his hand never revealed until the time comes. The owner of Coral Sea is a master plotter, Adarl holding no love for tricksters and swindlers after the manner of her cousin's suicide.

“Everyone has a past. You too as well, Adarl Tayne. Remember how you're taunted for being too stick thin and ugly? You have truly blossomed. Apart from your breasts, of course. That's a compliment, not an insult. There's no such thing as perfect beauty."

“I don't see the relevance,” says Adarl, her frustration snapping at its target.

“Yes, there is. Some choose to forget and others choose not to let go. We're all like that. This is why you choose to love a man regardless of whether he loves you back or not.”

Chagrin consumes Adarl, her palm ready to strike. Before the slap begins its attack, however, Lukas grips her wrist, his deceptive strength forcing her to give up.

“Then there's our common friend forced to forget and cursed with the urge not to let go.”

Lukas releases Adarl's hand as he finishes his statement, his confidence in her not striking out justified.

“Did you two discover anything?”

With a curt reply, Adarl concedes defeat. Then her eyes stray towards a male patron, a grinning sober man attempting to force himself on one of the serving girls.

“Nothing.”

Without warning, Lukas strides towards the offender with a dagger drawn. A left-hand grip grabs the fool by his face, a knife swiftly buried into the neck.

“My work is never done. Can someone please take out the rubbish?”

Returning back to Adarl’s view, Lukas tosses another knife upwards and catches it by the tip.

“I have nothing against excited men, but not in my own backyard. So where did we stop?”

With those words, he plunges the blade against the counter table.

“You didn't ask why I'm interested in Cale's past.”

A question posed masking the intent to test, Adarl’s move is nevertheless detected by Lukas.

“That's because I don't care who he marries so long she can keep an eye on him. I owe him a debt, but I don't expect myself to be worthy of repaying that lion of a man.”

“What debt?”

“Does it really matter? We don't share the same bed, but I know the two of you will. Mind you, my informants are everywhere.”

)0(

“You can’t touch me! I am under protection!”

Cale didn’t blink in front of someone clearly in hysteria, whether or not an acquitted rapist should be protected wasn't his business. The sandy blond went to the Imperial Zoo once, maybe someone should feed a dastardly dog to a hungry beast.

“Stop it, Cale. Bastard’s not worth your time.”

"Well, he's not worth yours as well, Brouno."

If there’s anything he understood, it would be those murmured words. If he wanted something done, he’d get it done. If someone could get away with rape and branding a witness a lying whoreson, this very witness could also get away with what he’s about to do.

“Cale, you hear me? Do it and the law will go after you!”

Getting sick and tired of people telling him about the law, the being of wrath wondered how the good old days were like before he was born. Changes to the law could not be denied, but it didn’t mean people shouldn’t be tossed into the River Tes so long no one stepped forward. Marvas was yelling for nothing, Lukas’ advice wouldn’t work on him. Cale took down a self-righteous judge less than a day ago, the worth of integrity was never something to the arrogant.

“I am protected by the law!”

This was surely the most laughable statement Cale had heard, was it the law of the gods or the law of men? Perhaps both were one and the same? Cale Ryvers was never the religious sort, maybe even someone who never believed in higher powers in the first place. Questioning the existence of deities was always a pain in the arse, the sandy blond concluding no time should be wasted on something without an answer.

“Tell me... tell me how many girls you have shafted.”

The scoundrel’s face froze on the spot, a sight worth more than a sea of precious gems.

“How many?”

Anger boiled inside Cale as he interrogated a criminal, the enforcer understood only the rights and wrongs in the purest form. If that fellow believed what he did is funny, it meant he’s waiting to be shown a real comedy. Letting go of the iron rod, Cale’s gesture was not one of mercy. Given a choice, he’d prefer murder. But there’s a promise waiting to be fulfilled with Irlia, he couldn’t risk it all for the sake of injustice served.

“Well, you know what people say about retribution?”

If Cale must recall any lesson learnt from his uncle, it’d be that righteousness is a god who always wins. He rued not making a wager with Marvas Creek and Lukas Broun, he was absolutely sure this person would be rendered impotent by the end of everything.

“No!”

Seeing an arsehole scream was one thing, seeing him blacking out was something priceless. This was the best part of his life and given a choice, Cale Ryvers wouldn’t trade this moment for anything else apart from Irlia's hand in marriage.

“Oh my gods! Parkyns’ lad killed him!”

“Pah, that bastard! Who cares?”

Even though there was no way to prove it, maybe the gods were real after all. Cale did not know these two old men, but he knew the meaning behind an approving grin. A strong hand gripped his shoulder, relief overtaking Cale upon knowing who.

“Moron! What if you killed him? Trading a scum for jail, who’s your classroom teacher by the way?”

“It’s not as if he's dead. So keep calm, Marv.”

It’s not the end, it’s not over. Either Cale would throw that lawbreaker down a well or he’d just keep on beating him, that's why an iron stick was pilfered from his uncle’s forge.

“No, Cale. That’s enough! More of it and he will really die.”

Lukas’ sharp tone held Cale in his place, perhaps it’s down to the ability to reason and winning as a result. Marvas was far less an idiot than Cale, a fact they acknowledged. But if there could be someone convincing another what’s dead was actually alive and what’s alive was actually dead, no one did it like Lukas Broun. Then the brunette smiled, it was as if something good was happening or it already happened.

“Guess he lost control of his bladder.”

“So how are you going to clear up our retarded friend’s mess, Luk?" queried Marves, his question marked by a shrug. "First the judge, now him. I don’t mean the pissing part by the way.”

“I’ll make sure he lives. And while I’m at it, staying noiseless as well.”


)0(

“So how fared your source of information?”

There is no difference between days ago and now, the attractive elf still has his silvery blond hair slicked back and tied. Caressing his elongated ears flippantly, this is a figure of unflappable confidence and eerie calm. His maroon doublet worn over a white shirt is secured by a silken sash, trousers and leather shoes completing the look.

If there is anyone Adarl detests most in dealing with, it's never Lukas Broun. At least there is a predictable factor in him, namely his friendship with Cale. This other individual is a different kind of monster altogether, for his emerald eyes never betray a trace of emotions while smiling like a cunning rogue. Before their first meeting, Adarl already knew how elves looked. Hauntingly fair and aloof, each always places a hand on the handle of a weapon as a show of force. No one tried asking them the manner of their business, such has been the fear they command. More often than not, a passing banter involving elven women would result in a life mysteriously gone. The speaker's tongue was never to be seen again, a dagger wedged between the victim's shoulder blades.

“I have a request for you, my fair lady. In return, I will tell you something you want.”

Edeaux eos Nimhein seized the initiative, his style of negotiation unbecoming of the Homm'Nua. For they are a people preferring the direct approach, their pride a stumbling block. He introduced himself as a seafaring merchant from Histalonia, his words not entirely false. For where he hails from is a land of money, status, and power, a place of skulduggery with no reprieve for the weak and tardy.

“I know you desire a certain man. I also feel the same for another. My informant told me both parties know each other as friends. I need you to check on him. Ask away any questions in your mind before him and I shall see to it that you will be well rewarded for your efforts.”

“He's fine,” says Adarl, her wary brown eyes focusing on the surroundings. Knowing anyone capable of preventing deplorable men from doing their worst can easily be the same kind of brute, the fact this Histalonian kept his end of the bargain holds no meaning. Her safety was indeed guaranteed, but she didn’t expect Lukas to wait for her a few miles away from the nether region. Something wasn’t right with the situation, Lukas warned her not to trust a snake while escorting her to the Coral Sea. When questioned, he merely murmured something about choosing between an adder’s venom and a viper’s poison.

“Why should I give you a new home in one of my many bordellos? You are a fine maiden, but I have a better one in mind. Here in Teslaide, no less. No offence intended towards your bosom.”

Edeaux’s smirk never loses its curve, his relaxed posture is one of a feline waiting to pounce.

“Fine then. As promised…”

Laughter from the elf interrupts Adarl’s words, his reply cutting short her statement.

“There is a hidden orphanage in the ruins of Redcart. Hidden because a forest now stands upon where a boy’s lost childhood used to live. A small patch of land from my best of knowledge, no more than a few acres by my estimation.”

“They say it's haunted.”

The speaker is not Adarl, the voice all too familiar to both listeners. A slim figure dressed in bartender's garb greets them both, his androgynous features bringing slow applause from Edeaux.

“Ah, all hail the one whom I brought up.”

“Spare me your pompous greeting, Serpent. Adarl, please leave here at once.”

Lukas’ blue eyes of anger catch a quavering Adarl off guard, the daughter of Chard Tayne knows trouble is nearing. As she turns her back on the two, Edeaux's message manages to reach her ears, the clarity akin to a king's herald announcing his liege's coming.

“If you see either a red-haired maiden or her dark brooding knight, it means you are on the right path. Make sure the damsel is Ciras and her guardian Kain.”

)0(

What the Seven Hells?

This dream again?

How many times I’ve been through this?

I'm standing in the middle of this blizzard again. Everyone... everyone is dead. Some of them look familiar, but I don't know who they are. The rest are just strangers. There's this girl with her head cut off, the colour of her hair is like the reddish snow.

Do I know her?

“Can you keep up with me?”

I hate that voice without knowing why. His emotionless tone makes me feel like punching him.

Part of myself says this fellow is responsible, but the greater half of me denies it. Like always, he's dressed in dark green and a brown leather vest. Grey gloves reach below his elbows and his boots are knee-high. Then there's this bloodstained sword in his hand and a grey cloak flapping wildly towards one side.

My legs are numbed even though I don't feel the cold. My vision is blurred without the pain. My joints are already stiff, but my fists remain clenched.

“Can you keep up with me?”

Same old question from the same old arsehole. A fire flares up inside and its warmth rouses me. Its presence reminds me of something... something which I can't remember. Bloody Seven Hells, going back to Redcart really made me and Brouno looked like a pair of running idiots going after a prize that wasn't there.

Sky blue eyes, long ears, and brown skin… that’s a look I'll never forget. His hair is fairly short and parted to the side, but the rest of his face remains a blur. You better try keeping up with me instead, bastard!

I start running after him. There’s no way I will lose. There’s no way I can lose to him! Surely I can keep up with him. Definitely, I will…

)0(

Glossary
Holy Quintet: The collective name of the gods of the Causaceans' official religion. There are five of them in total. Namely, the Father, the Planter, the Warrior, the Learner, and the Juror.

Wearsor, Tynis, Mersey, Teslaide: Four of the ten northern regions of the Hallenian Empire.

Lionian Brethren: The only militia officially recognised by the Empire's central government. Based in the northern regions and restricted within the boundaries as well.

Bant: An informal word for banter.

Shaft: An informal term for having sex.

Trench leave: Any period of leave given to members of the military.

Imperial Zoo: One of the numerous parks in the Hallenian Empire where animals and birds are held in captivity for the people's viewing purpose.

River Tes: A major river in the northern regions irrigating the lands of Teslaide, Tynis, and Wearsor.

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