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~
(Written by Cocteau L'Enfant Naturel)
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 6: Of Harlots, Scoundrels, And Men
"There's always more than one meaning to a sword but only one world in which it exists."
~Heihou no Tai'Go
)0(
“Hey, Aera. When's the last time you whored?”
'Dumb question. Try harder, whoreson Lars.”
“Considering we're in this gi'ya together, I have the right to be curious.”
“Either last week or last month in the south.”
“You mean Nanshu? But this is Kanshu. To think you rejected her advances.”
“Who?”
“Ri'In, the most popular courtesan famous for rejecting many men and breaking plenty of hearts.”
“Go shaft her then, bastard.”
)0(
Naked body stained by blood, Desmona can only flee without direction. Believing at first a hero arriving to save her and her friends, every sliver of hope sold itself to despair. This is a rabid animal walking on two legs, a demonic maelstrom leaving behind blood and body parts in its wake. Surely he's a bastard conceived from an unholy union of heroic tales and fiendish myths, the power displayed a storm of steel and flitting form. Gone are her only friends, companions making inevitable fate somewhat bearable.
"Ye’ll fectha’ fine hella’sum! Befer dat, ye’ll need sum educatin’, ya hear us?"
What has she done to deserve all these? He father was an incorrigible gambler, her mother a hopeless drunk. Her solace was tales told by kindly tellers, stories of humble common girls becoming princesses. Tiny pieces of joyful memories matter not, only an eternal nightmare awaits. The image burns deeply in her like a ewe lamb branded, screams and death staying in her mind. The bandits are the ones guilty, not her or others doomed to pleasure men!
"……"
The attacker said nothing, his silence betraying something amiss. Why did she choose to run towards him? If she had never done so, then maybe… just maybe… there would be a happy ending. She would leave behind her past for good, a worthy husband and happy children her rightful lot. Her husband would always be cheerful, perhaps her parents would one day beg for forgiveness. Weeping and running, Desmona curses the monster and a demon true.
"It’s your fault… you murderous dog…"
"Save me! Plea…"
Comes the moment, comes the surrender. Damning images devouring her mind for good, Desmona’s strength flees.
No strength to run, no strength to think… no strength to…
Then a hand grabs her wrist from behind, an alien warmth seizing her senses. She tries to scream, a hand covering her mouth in response. She kicks back against her captor, a prayer to nail a blow in between the legs. Giving a hard bite, she forces the grip loose. Then a sharp pain greets the back of her skull, her vision surrendering to darkness.
)0(
Ashter Barnes is clearly not amused, the latest episode of mischief coming to light only after Lolyx brought in a stranger. His daughter has never been one to shy away from doing the right thing, this also means the same when it comes to stupid dares. In Rhian Morris' own words, imagine Cale Ryvers in a dress and the picture should be clear enough. That was the first time someone said something this witty in his presence, the very last as well.
“Any last words?”
Before her father's interrogation, the Tamurian can only scratch her head while looking away. What in the name of the Seven Hells was that burnt idiot thinking?
“This isn't safe anymore. Take Ciras to somewhere better.”
“What? Why me?”
“Because you stumbled upon this place.”
“Good thing bastard never said 'Because I said so'. I'd have slapped him.”
“I heard that, Lolyx. What did I preach about swearing?”
“Erm... those who do so will go to the Seven Hells?”
“I didn't say that. Don't put words into a parish's mouth.”
With a sigh, Ashter turns his sight to Adarl.
“You should have known better, Adarl. Years of learning the dark side of the world as a serving girl and you should know the madness behind all this. I know you care about Cale's past, but marriage is for life. You know what this means.”
“So what are you going to do, Uncle Barnes?”
Adarl's response is unable to throw Ashter off his guard, for charity was, is, and ever will be part of a parish's calling. He didn't know a thing about this mysterious red-haired maiden, but even a single spark can bring warmth in a world never guilty of making much sense.
“Parish Barnes! Someone needs help and Cale got his balls smashed in.”
Widened gazes greet a stout man in soldier's garb entering the door, Ashter utters a short prayer for the day to be over and done with. First this, now that. Grett Maines is an impartial man, but that doesn't mean he didn't have a thief's shadowy past. If his guess is correct, he will need to replace the lock.
“Someone castrated that idiot?” asks Lolyx, her amusement exposed to all.
“That's a dumb question, little brown girl. Someone just saved a girl from rape, Marves is tearing his hair out, and your castrated idiot nearly sparked a brawl because he's the only gentleman among the supreme morons.”
“You mean you're forced to break up a fight,” says Ciras, the bizarre situation failing to muddle her mind, “Is anyone injured?”
“If you mean whether anyone died, the thrice-blessed answer is no. But I need to put her up here. Anywhere else and I suspect my wife will kill me. Seriously, it's not a joke.”
)0(
"Was it my fault that I took a piss before she ran past me?"
"My answer is no. But it’s your fault for playing hero, so stop whining about her bite and the fact that you nearly got your balls smashed in."
"I didn't whine!"
"You kept talking about it as if it’s some big deal."
"Because you call me a cretin!"
"Well, you are. Do you expect me to call myself retarded like thirty-nine other idiots in the same room? You started this, Cale. From the moment you saved her to the moment you started a fight."
Desmona wakes up to a quarrel happening next door, a dusky girl around her age seated on a stool and asleep near the window. Getting up, she unwittingly rouses her slumbering counterpart.
"Oh, I’m sorry!"
If a hasty apology reaches her ears, Lolyx merely shows a wide yawn and bleary face. Tasked with taking care of a girl emotionally scarred, she had to contend with the occasional bout of screaming and sobbing. She feels sorry for the victim, surely a horrendous ordeal dealt her a terrible hand. While Cale Ryvers is always one to create unwanted trouble, his penchant for playing the ally of justice is nevertheless an admirable trait albeit the only one. He never notices it given his dim-witted nature, but Adarl is not the only girl smitten by him.
Seriously, Lady Cressandra Tanias? Wait, what is she doing?
Hurrying to the room where a slanging match is currently held, Lolyx pursues Desmona. This is a staring competition between two youths, one an idiot and the other not so intelligent. Desmona's dull blue eyes perceive a fairly handsome redhead with eyes of brown, his fiery countenance convincing her he must have been the one. Then there is another lad with sandy blond hair and eyes of sapphire blue, his average looks speaking an image of inferiority.
"Oh, the princess is awake." says the red-haired lad, a finger tapping his friend's shoulder.
"Thank you,” replies Desmona, a slight bow of gratitude the only gesture she can come up with.
"Hey, she said that to you, Marves!" grins the blond, a vulgar gesture playing the taunter, "Ha ha ha ha! At least Uncle Parky won’t grill me over this."
"Two things." retorts Marves Creek, a growling visage threatening violence, "First, don’t thank me, moron. Secondly…"
Desmona is no fool, she knows the meaning of that look. If it's not the comely redhead, then surely it has to be…
"Thank this idiot for saving you, my fair lady,” quips a grinning Marves Creek as he turns towards Desmona, an abrupt reversal in expression earning a venomous glare from Adarl. Cale starts squirming like an awkward lad stuck in a room full of beautiful women, dealing with attractive strangers is never his strength.
Desmona can only laugh out loud, the absurdity on display not lost on her. When was the last time she did so? She heard the offensive banter between two boys, yet there's something in their words making her feel perhaps a cruel world has never abandoned her.
)0(
Night has fallen, many a door is closed. During the day, the Vixen's Hatch entertained its share of clients. Among bordellos within Hallenian borders and beyond, there are those owned by women instead of men. It is often said for a man to own whores is natural, a woman doing the same is merit. The time for rest has arrived, a modest building of two floors shuttered. There is only this much each body of flesh and blood can take, for they are not bronze and iron. The world can easily become cruel, a crucible where to survive is not necessarily to live. Like day and night, the surface and what lies beneath exist as two sides of a coin. Paradise or hell, it matters not.
Mellyssa looks on impassively, the owner of a brothel with middling repute refusing to show her final client the door. He arrived at noon, he ordered no whores but only food and drink. His eyes are of glittering gold, a sight not unnoticed by her girls. On more than a few occasions, they tried flirting with him. Their curiosity aroused, he indulged them. Yet there's sadness and sorrow in his gaze, a fact recognised by those who worked long enough in the business of pleasing men.
“Are you going to drive him out?”
Peering from the second storey beside Mellyssa, a buxom lass new to the trade taps a finger on her cheek.
“As a matter of fact, yes. I can't afford to create dumb rumours over one man. Act fast if you want him, Jenniave.”
“Thanks!”
As she sees her charge skipping lightly down the stairs, Mellyssa can only shake her head in humour and resignation. She likes his eyes, this much she admits. Not due to the colour resembling a harlot's best friend, for all men are equal. This is a man who knows more about the world than the rest of her customers, sinners and saints alike. His look is a minstrel telling tales of the irredeemable, the windows of his soul a reminder of all things wrong with the world.
As Jenniave grabs a stool and seats herself beside a brooding prince, a well-built man barges into the hall. Square jawed with a sneer, his hand dragged along a girl battered and naked from the waist. Eyes widened with rage and fear, Jenniave knows both the perpetrator and his victim. Though they are of different brothels, she and Lyli have been close friends before their village was razed. Sold to swarthy corsairs of the south, companionship was the only reason why neither sought suicide. Slavery may be illegal in the Empire, but forgery remains a lucrative trade. Get paid and no one owns a slave, authenticity be damned. Nether districts were meant for petty criminals released from their cells, the intent of reforming scoundrels a brutal lie. Give a crook a fish and he will eat for a day, teach him to fish and he will do something else. Such is a filthy cradle, a pathetic attempt to please representatives from Deis four decades after the War of the Three Crowns. No one said Henrod I was incompetent, but that's because he would be called a wife-killing imbecile among other names. His final victim happened to be a cardinal's illegitimate daughter, a nameless bard gone headless composed a song still lewdly sung by sellswords, rogues, and whores.
“Naden! You...”
“Bastard?” leers the offensive brute, a hand placed on his crotch, “I think I just fathered one and I'm suddenly in the mood to have another.”
“Bastard!” screams Jenniave, her hand reaching for him, “I'll kill you!”
Restrained by Mellyssa, the brothel's matron boasts a deceptively strong grip. Naden Colis isn't a pimp to be easily crossed, his violent streak dwarfed only by rumours of overbearing virility. Given a choice, she'd have cut his throat, broil his innards, and serve them to his clients. Sooner or later, he'd have made his way to Vixen's Hatch just to rape a whore.
“It takes a monster to slay a demon. Only a human can kill both.”
Getting up, Lars stares at Naden. Five parts relaxed and five parts tensed, his athletic frame unleashes the aura of a crouching beast. The silence is suffocating, a reminder to Jenniave of a past full of the dead. Gone is a morose man, an unapproachable being now stands in his place. It is as if he is a monster, a judge ready to be the executioner.
“Pah! Who do you think you are? A hero?” sneers Naden, an unconscious victim thrown at Lars' feet, “Pick her up if you dare. Show your back to me if you dare.”
A murder of crows appears, their numbers replacing a pimp's weapon of taunting. As they converge towards their master, Jenniave questions the truth of what she sees. There cradled under another man's arm is Lyli, her delicate figure left behind by the birds. Laying her gently on his seat, Lars' cold steely glare stays fixed onto a stupefied knave.
“I can be reckless but not stupid. Show me your weapon. If you dare.”
Stung like a bully mocked by his victim, Naden Colis let out a bellow and unsheathes his knife. It is a blade claiming many a soul, harlots and fools alike. Unperturbed like a rock before the crashing waves, Lars Alies grabs his attacker by the wrist. His foot firmly pinning a shocked man visibly bulkier, a violent swing aided by circular movement dislocates Naden's shoulder. The pop is disturbingly audible, the howling pain grim music to Jenniave's ears.
Crows of the same murder flock together...
The first verse of a poem sings its tune, a single crow transforming itself into a spear. In Lars' hand, the killing thrust plants its tip into the wooden floor. Its shaft went through a dead man limp, a sinner unrepentant knelt. Flesh and blood swiftly give way to ashes, to dust the executed returns. All but one are astounded by what they see, Mellyssa's seriousness revealing how much she has seen in her years. She is reminded of another man just like him, a Sudhlit whose promise is not to die until the day he beholds a better woman.
Osseus, you supreme bastard. You should have been here watching this.
“I'm sorry for making you watch a monster killing a demon. No one should have the right to see certain things.”
Lars' apology triggers something in Jenniave, her words unleashing mercy in an unmerciful way.
“Don't think we're all retarded bitches, you idiot! You're not a monster. A monster won't give this kind of face after killing a demon! You hear me?”
Before she knows it, the latest addition to Vixen's Hatch has tears flowing her cheeks. When was the last time she cried like this? Many are the monsters seeing themselves as humane, so why should he insist on himself being like them? Is he lying to himself or taking others to be a race of fools?
“Lars Alies.”
“Huh?”
“That's my name. Thank you for believing in a monstrosity like me, my lady fairer than the fairest rose.”
“That's a fine show of monstrosity, my friend!”
Before Lars, a man of dark complexion and rugged features makes his welcome. Jenniave knows such a look, one from the south no different from those guilty of destroying her life. Mellysa places a gentle hand on her shoulder, a finger to the lips and a gentle smile telling her not to be rash.
Without any response to words of jesting tone, Lars bids a company of harlots farewell. In his place, a large murder of crows makes their flight. There is no cawing from their beaks, only serene silence.
“Ah, so he's gone just like that,” sighs the Sudhlit, with a shrug he grabbed a stool for himself, “Do you get such interesting clients daily, Mel?”
“Shut up, Osseus,” snaps Mellysa, a fake show of ire evident for all to see, “You're late by three days. I assume something happened in your latest business trip.”
“You mean a trip to get people killed? I'm a tactician, not a fighter. It's my job to get people killed instead of killing them. And that can be complicated at times.”
)0(
“I see you're here. You're a lonely one, aren't you?”
Aeravor scrutinised the attractive woman strolling towards him, the Relentless One's gaze as unyielding as a beast guarding its ground. This was the one accosting him nights ago, the very same flower of a whore Lars mentioned before. She boasted a good figure, he had to give her that. Brazenly stripping herself naked before men and women alike, Aeravor recalled her face when he walked towards the exit. His eyes saw the anger of slight back then, his instinct sensed bemusement now.
“I've never seen such an interesting man like you. I was right in deciding you're good enough for at least one night free of charge.”
Seated beside a foreigner towering over every man she bedded, Ri'In grabbed the liquor bottle from his hand. Taking a large swig of the brew, she displayed a sated smile.
“Junjo grade,” she whispered seductively near his elongated ear, her bosom pressed tightly against his arm, “Where did you get such a fine brew?”
Taking over the bottle from Ri'In, Aeravor shook the bottle slightly. Emptying the remnant, he casually tossed it down the cliff.
“Took it from a fellow arsehole. He's too busy kicking a beggar, so I stabbed him and grabbed it.”
“And no one screamed?”
“Plenty of screaming but not my problem.”
“That's as cruel as a bottle hitting someone below us.”
Suddenly facing his azure gaze, Ri'In's heart fluttered furiously. This was the look of a man cursed with nothing, a person blessed with nothing to lose. Too many were those who had everything, yet also with nothing. He's the opposite, a vulgar salute to what the world values. She could have lived another life, thus her rage against the world. She sensed in him a kindred soul, yet his brazen mockery made a spectacle out of her ire. What she loved, he cared not. What she hated, he never gave a damn. This was why he walked off instead of pouncing that night, the pride of an arrogant bastard.
“The most beautiful dreams are the unattainable ones,” lamented Ri'In, her aggressive seduction surrendering to Aeravor's arrogance.
“Does it matter a shit? Death comes to all anyway.”
Taken aback by Aeravor's words, Ri'In was nevertheless piqued. Death was always a taboo among the Yaguryo, only a fool would speak of it even during a funeral. As for Aeravor, he was a man of the sword. Inies called him Iarlben, Ji'Yon called him Haganero. It's all the same, a man of steel was meant to be a man of death.
“Death... tell me more.”
“What's there to tell? We all will die.”
“Then what about living?”
“We live because we die. We die, therefore we must live. A fire doesn't die out unless it burns. A fire that doesn't burn is worthless.”
“If there will be a girl captivating your heart, she's either thrice-cursed or most blessed to have you.”
With those words, Ri'In resumed her grip onto Aeravor with a hand on her sash. One single tug and...
“I see you're enjoying yourself, Aera.”
Instinctively, Ri'In erected her guard. Nonchalantly, Aeravor got up. The maiden before them was comely, but the courtesan could recognise an inexperienced lass with a single glance. She never let down her wariness, for she might be that thrice-cursed or most blessed. Her eyes locked into a gaze. Ri'In was amused to see no animosity. But a woman's instinct honed by years of dealing with a cruel world told her something else, that things weren't that simple. A jealous woman would be an angry woman, but not a truly kindhearted one. Perhaps it's fitting a girl like her was inexperienced, that better it's for her stay that way.
“My name is Ji'Yon. Kagetsu no Ji'Yon. We need to talk.”
With a rascal's smile, Aeravor gently scratched Ji'Yon's head. Slapping his hand away, Ji'Yon glared at a smirking scoundrel.
“I'm not a cat.”
“Does it matter? When was the last time I called you a kitten? Yesterday?”
)0(
Aeravor opens his eyes, his back rested against a tree. Seated comfortably, a scene of carnage lies before him. Part of him knew what transpired, a massive portion nonetheless continued the slaughter. From one place to another, lives were lost and demons were slain. But he will not give up living, for he was born dead in his mother's womb. He will not give excuses for his actions, his pride will not tolerate them. If he is to die, let it be. If he is to live another day, let tomorrow persist.
A child's sobbing is heard, the Relentless One seeing the sole survivor crowded by the dead. He remembers what happened, it was a carnage involving demons, a monster, and innocent folks. Another person might have been consoled by demons killed, but not Aeravor. He is a Relentless One, a race of monstrosity whose only meaning in life is to slay demons. In one manner, he's not like them. Through another, a wolf can never be a noble lion. Whenever the Wild Hunt commences, no life matters before impending death.
“What are you crying about?”
The child looks at Aeravor, his visage a snarling beast. In a boy, a man sees himself. Part of himself wonders whether he will die at a youth's hands twenty seasons later, the thought amusing him to no end. Not because of what he is, possibilities are the reason why. Getting up, he walks towards the tensed up cub. Unlike all the while, his hand isn't on the pommel. Squatting down, he stares at a pair of eyes full of tears and bereft of innocence.
“If you want to kill me, better follow me. Otherwise, stay here and die. You have two choices.”
Silence reacts to Aeravor's offer, his smile akin to an arrogant mentor than a murderer. Standing up, he walks past piles of the dead. Nothing needs to be said, every life matters so long death has yet to come. Responding to the truth, the boy warily follows the man.
)0(
“You're asking me to adopt him?”
Anasius eyes the smirking stranger, questions involving a sellsword's audacious request playing games with his mind. The middle-aged parish is no fool, his eyes having observed fellow clergy and knaves alike. A past as a mercenary taught him cruelties of the world, the present teaching him the insidious nature of people like and unlike him. The former preach the need for kindness and charity, the latter a warning of falsehood and hypocrisy. Neither prepared him for this, the Holy Quintet should have warned him through dream or vision.
“Or do you want me to say money talks louder than words and action?”
“That's a cynical way of telling the truth.”
The resultant laughter takes Anasius off his guard, it is one of frankness but without mockery. If an adult can laugh like a child, this would be it.
“A deal then.”
Tossing a pouch of gold crowns onto the table, Aeravor left only for his money to be thrown at his feet. Glowering with anger, the slighted Relentless One places his hand upon the Edge of Answerer in a true elven manner.
“Did I say it's a deal? Don't insult my faith even though many do.”
“Insult your gods? Did they tell you to do this for free?”
“A sellsword's gold is made of blood. I'll take in the child but not your gold. Take back your money. Leave or kill me, but you and I know the aftermath of my deal.”
The silence is unmistakable to the child watching, his heart cheering for the parish. The man of faith stared at a man of the sword, the Wilderbrand refusing to yield in response. Then Aeravor breaks into a quaint smile, a thumb stroking his chin like that prideful intellectual met and kicked days ago.
“Gold made of blood? You have the scent of blood as well. Used to earn such bloody money?”
“A sellsword's sixth sense,” says Anasius, his face stoic before Aeravor's taunt, “The longer you live, the sharper it gets. Did I deny my past? You just didn't ask.”
“You impress me. Truly a man of the gods,” shrugs the Wilderbrand, a gloved hand picking up the gold, “It's not every day my temptation to kill something fades away.”
Throwing the money back onto Anasius table, Aeravor walks away with those words.
“This is my respect to you. Do with the gold as you like.”
)0(
Glossary
Nanshu: The southern islands of the Furthest East/Yaguryo. The geographical equivalent of Kyushu, Shikoku, and Jeju.
Kanshu: The central part of the Furthest East/Yaguryo. The geographical equivalent of the so-called Kanto-Kansai belt.
Sudhlit: Inhabitants of the arid Southlands with Tamuria as the region between it and Causacea. Their complexion is darker than Tamurians with sharp facial features equally common among men and women.
Junjo: One of the three grades of Yaguryo liquor, the other two being Fujo and Honjo. Junjo grade liquor boasts a stronger taste with Honjo having a lighter and fruitier taste. Fujo is of the lower standard and called the people's drink due to its resultant wide availability.
