Fate

[A®heim]

<<Three fortnights ago>>

Another thorn stabbed deep into her bare pad as she ran, but she had no breath to curse the pain.The footsteps and cries of her pursuers had long since faded, but fear and the adrenaline that fueled it had not. And so she kept running, her breaths coming in short, punctuated bursts as her muscles screamed for air her lungs could not provide. She had fled instinctively deeper into the Culsu swamp, hoping to lose them in the midnight bog--where keen senses would serve to conceal her--but as the cold, lifeless fingers of mud grasped ever more tenaciously at her ankles, the wisdom of this decision began gather doubt.

In the muck, a curving tree root caught her foot, a faint crack was heard, and she was sent sprawling into the bog. The Cathar girl curled up against the tree trunk, quivering from the adrenaline and pain shooting up her leg, and sobbed silently. Next to her, the tree root which had been pulled forcefully from the ground, settled back to its original, unobtrusive resting place.

"Why, Celeste? Why do you run? Everything is so less difficult when you cooperate." A shadow stepped from around the tree and stood beside her. Eyes ablaze with hatred, the faint light of the moon, and that awful stuff they had injected her with easily illuminated the young man's face. It was gaunt, pale, cold, and worst of all, the face of a friend.

"Why are you doing this, Jeraud? I trusted you!" Her voice cracked between sobs as she recoiled from him. "You told me you would watch out for me, that you wouldn't let them hurt me..."

For a moment, the figure halted his advance, an unnamed emotion threatening to play across his face. Was it pity? Resentment? Fear? It vanished as quickly as it came. "You're something different stronger in the Mythos than the others. Something we will use."

He began to reach for her bringing a fearful cry from the Cathar as she flinched away. In a fit of pure desperation, her natural talent in levikinesis leapt to mind, as did the thunderbolt from her hand. There was a brilliant flash and her pain spiked threefold as the bolt was effortlessly refracted back at her. The man snarled struck her across the head with a swift kick. "I said you were good, but you are no Unum Elite! You haven't even begun to understand the power that could be yours! The power I now possess!" He lashed out and grabbed her violently by the hair.

So she sunk her fangs into his arm.

And her claws.

There was a sickening crunch and her vision blurred from the most excruciating pain she had ever experienced, worse even than the horrors that had accompanied her Etherium withdrawals. Serikinesis. He was literally crushing her broken leg. She tried to cry out, to beg for any tiniest bit of mercy from whatever powers there may be, but not a sound escaped her parted lips.

"You see? You see now what we can do, would you could do?"

The pressure was gone suddenly, but the pain remained. She found she could only shake her head, wishing to deny his words, her fate, the galaxy, everything.

"Your fate is forfeit. You're coming with me. You can submit, or you can die here and now."

She could only whimper, and nod her head, just wanting it to be over--wanting the suffering to end, even if that meant falling into its shadowy depths.

He picked up the broken girl with a tenderness that one so cold should not be able to accomplish. It sickened her more than anything else. "Good. One day you will see. One day you will not regret this."

____________________________________________________________

<<Present time>>

Celena hung now, suspended by frosty, biting chains by her arms and legs, sobbing silently once again and regretting having not chosen death on that day nearly two months prior. The Tower dungeon was very much unlike the initial image the word 'dungeon' conjures for the minds subtle observation. Much of the chamber was fine wood, polished, the only stone being the simple facades upon which the chains were fastened and ample light filtered in from a large, semi-oval stained glass window. She squinted against the dawn sunlight coming through this window, yet another pounding headache coming on--she hadn't had a dose of Etherium in far too long, though she had been trying to ween herself steadily off of the drug she so hated to depend on.

Not that it mattered anymore. Jeraud never had failed to remind her what the Stellar Mythics did with the Unum assassins they captured.

Trying to look anywhere but at the searing light, her slitted eyes passed once more over the the largest obstacle to her salvation--a hulking Besalisk sentinel, one (she had been warned upon her placement under his 'care') whose skill for pure energy and counter-Mythos was unmatched amongst the Mythics. He gave her a disapproving glare and a brutish sniff. She lowered her eyes and occupied her mind with trying to figure out how she still had tears left.

And the day passed on, and a shadow at last passed over her, and the Besalisk didn't move a nanometer, and still she hung there.

Her fate forfeit as it had been always.

[Rugs]

I am the guardian that stands against the night.

Kvothe's face was an expressionless mask as he stared at himself in the mirror. He was tired. Oh, so tired. It was there in the ways his hazel eyes didn't quite seem to be all the open, or in the way he leaned slightly against the edge of the sink. True, he'd just woken up a short while ago, but this tiredness ran deeper than the usual morning grogginess.

How long had it been since their return from the disastrous outing to the ruins in the Itzli mountains? A day maybe? It was hard to tell. Kvothe had been unconscious for most of it. What was supposed to be an exploration trip quickly turned into yet another skirmish in the ever-growing conflict between the Mythics and their Unum foes.

The sentinel that stands alone, ever diligent, ever vigilant.

They'd beaten the attackers back, but only because the Unum seemed to have underestimated them. From what Kvothe had heard from the others, most of the Unum fighters in the attack had been young. Fresh recruits, still wet behind the ears. At least they'd been fortunate enough for that to happen.

They'd won? Right?

"Right?" he whispered.

"Do you know why I haven't killed you yet?"

Veins stood out with strands of muscle along Kvothe's forearms as his grip suddenly tightened on the edge of the counter. His eyes darkened to a bloody red at the sound of his elder brother's deep voice echoing through his thoughts.

"Of course you don't. It is so I can prove to you, dear brother, how weak, how pathetic, how truly worthless you are. I plucked Fides from you. I plucked father from you."

No! Kvothe screamed at the voice in his mind. His head shook and his eyes squeezed shut, as if those things would stop what he knew was coming. Shut up! Go away! If it heard him, it paid no mind.

"And now, I'm going to pluck that girl away from you."

The silence in the bathroom was suddenly shattered by the sounds of containers clattering to the ground, driven by an angry swipe of Kvothe's hand. One of them, a small glass vial of oil extracted from the skin of a species of gourd that grew along the western shore of Idzumo Lake, shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. Its contents spilled across the smooth floor, filling the bathroom with a sweet, if earthy, smell. Kvothe didn't even notice.

Iri. Her face flashed through his mind. Always smiling. Always happy and cheerful. Always trying to make the day just a little bit brighter, in her own special way.

And now she was gone, taken prisoner by Vorian and his underlings. Why?

Because I was too weak. Kvothe's eyes reopened. They were a deep, dark blue now, but some of the red remained. The anger wasn't toward his brother, though. I was too weak to protect her. Oh, he'd fought. He'd given everything he had to try to stop his brother. It was the reason he was still weary even now. But it hadn't been enough. His eyes drifted along the ugly cut Vorian's dagger left across his chest and into the front of his left shoulder. It was healing, aided by the work Magnus had done, and held closed by stitches. It would scar. That would make four scars that marred Kvothe's body, thanks to Vorian.

I'm supposed to be a guardian. That was part of the oath he'd taken upon his acceptance. A guardian to stand against the ones that would harm his fellows in the Order or act against Aiaru and her people.

"I failed her."

How many times had those three words come to him, either through his mouth or through his thoughts, while he stood before the mirror? He'd lost count. Whatever the number, the truth remained, at least in Kvothe's mind, that he had a duty to uphold and he'd failed in it. Irrisorrie was a Unum captive, and Kvothe didn't have a clue where they might be holding her. The thought sent shivers skating down his spine. Kvothe knew all too well what the Unum did to their prisoners. The breaking process was far from pretty. And if Vorian's the one they set over breaking her... He shuddered at the thought.

A long, heavy sigh broke his lips as he let the counter go and looked down. The air stirred at a motion of his fingers, picking up the little shards of glass and depositing them into a nearby trash bin. That extract was what he was supposed to be putting on his cut to keep it from getting infected. He'd have to stop by the medical wing and get some more. There were other things he had to attend to first, though.

He left the bathroom and went back out into his quarters. They were large, larger than most that were occupied by a single Mythic, since they were a suite, rather than a single room. They'd belonged to the Algaterras as a family once, before Vorian defected and Kvothe's parents passed into the next life. Now they're so empty, he mulled, as he put his robes on, tightening his sash about his waist.

Kvothe would leave his staff for here for the time being, only taking his small, two-pronged dagger.

I am the shield, the bulwark that stands against the storm.

"Come on, Fas," he called near the door, and he slipped away into the halls of the Tower.

There was a new guest that he needed to visit.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few minutes later found Kvothe turning a final corner and arriving at his destination. He was in the dungeon. Even though his stride was filled with purpose, he could not hide the weariness that still ate at him. Perhaps taking Pietas wouldn't have been such a bad idea. It was too late now, though.

He stopped by the Besalisk guardian, nodding to him and offering his name and rank before he was allowed to proceed. Once he was in, he stopped, looking to the person that hung in chains before him.

Disgust filled him at the sight of her. Fury swelled along with it. "Filth," he muttered, taking a few steps nearer. She was a Cathar. Young and seemingly the worse for wear. Once they got the information they needed from her, she'd be dead.

"Well," he said flatly, turning his gold and red eyed gaze up to her, "I'm sure this isn't the way you thought you'd be spending your days after that raid in the mountains, is it?" He began to stalk slowly from side to side, like a predator before its prey. His eyes never left her, though. "You've got about five seconds to start talking."

Kvothe almost prayed that she didn't. He needed something, anything to take his frustrations, his fears out on, and she would do. He didn't care about her age, nor did he care about the condition she was in or that she was female. She was Unum. She was filth. Her fate had been sealed the moment she'd been captured.

I am the sword of righteousness.

And if Kvothe had his way, his would be the hands that killed her.

[A®heim]

She didn't look up when her executioner arrived, though whether this was from her wish not to admit its reality or simply her lack of strength to do so, not even she cared. She could hear his footsteps--cursing sensitive ears as they twitched, twitched, in time with the steady plodding on the stone. The Reaper had heavier footfalls than she had imagined.

"Well."

The voice was cold, filled with a repressed anger that made her wince as he spoke. She kept her eyes closed tight.

"You've got about five seconds to start talking."

Four seconds passed before Kvothe's prayers were ignored. With more effort than she had ever remembered making in her entire life, she cracked her eyes open to look at her Death. What would have been slits any other day were wide circles of ebony forged of dim light and terror. Long streaks ran through the light coat of fur beneath her eyes where the long-ago dried tears had stained her forever with emotion. The emotion that would follow her to the grave, to her damnation. She hiccuped then, overwhelmed with the latest dead weight of lament; this was the end and this was the only way she would ever feel again--broken, terrified, a heart and spirit of lead.

Her eyes burned but no more tears would come. Instead, only words--if that's what you could call them--came forth. "I-I-I...never m-meant to- I-I didn't..." Words stuttered into oblivion and silent shaking. The weight her spirit had become seemed to crush her physically, pressing down on her chest as if to let nothing escape. Not words, not breaths, not hope. At last a single, quivering breath managed to find its way into her lungs and she exhaled softly. "-ngave me n-no choice...they-...we-...I never wanted..."

Her head fell forward, the tangled, matted mess of her long brown hair fell across her face, concealing it from view. She spoke again, softly, hardly audible even in the empty, echoing gallery. "They sent us for the girl. The one with the mist. It was m-my initiation...first test." She looked up again, glimmering eyes looking into Kvothe's, pleading. "Please...you don't know...you can't run...y-you don't run...they always find you...b-br-bring you b-back...I tried, I..." She paused to stagger in another ragged breath, "...I f-failed...it was this or..."

Her head fell again, unable to look into those vindictive golden eyes any longer. Why even try? She had been resigned to her fate and nothing short of a magic time machine could change that now. Time...time...it came back to her as she hung there, wracked by anguish and unable to speak more. They had caught her every time. Every time she tried to run, they were one step ahead--right around the next dark corner waiting to take her home. A home where such disloyal behavior had to be punished. Punished with blood, punished with Etherium, punished with death. This had been what awaited her resistance, and now it's what awaited her compliance.

Fate's a baznitch.

[Rugs]

There was no immediate answer. Kvothe's knuckles popped loudly in the heavy silence that filled the room as he stood there, staring the prisoner down. His eyes were hard and unforgiving as he waited, for her to speak.

No, as he hoped that she didn't.

Three seconds passed. Four. Kvothe opened himself to the Mythos, letting the sacred energies run into him like a flood...

She spoke.

One of the corners of Kvothe's mouth twitched in disappointment. At least she was talking. Sort of. It was broken up; her terror was evident. He didn't care. Rather, his heart only hardened as he listened to her beg and plead and sob, telling him that she hadn't had a choice, that there was nothing she could have done.

There was a point in the past where Kvothe might have felt sympathy. Hell, even before the trip to the ruins, he might have been willing to forgive. But his years in the Sword had hardened him, and the loss of so many close to him at the hands of the Unum had only made things worse. And now, with Vorian's threat, which had been promptly put into effect, there was no room left within him for mercy. There couldn't be. Not for filth like this girl. He had to protect his friends, had to protect his fellows and his order from the destruction her type would surely bring upon it.

To do that, all the traitors would have to die. There was no other alternative. They'd proven their trickery in the past; his own brother had been broken out of a cell not too dissimilar from this one, all those years ago. Death was ultimate, though. It could not be broken out of like a cell, could not be deceived like some soft-hearted man. Death was final, and it would be Kvothe's tool--a tool that he'd use this girl's life to sharpen.

It was only fitting. Her guilt had been declared when she attacked them in the mountains. Now Kvothe was her judge. And soon, he'd be her executioner.

Her eyes would find no mercy, no understanding when they met his. The gold gaze that she'd see was cold. Uncaring. Merciless.

"Please...you don't know...you can't run...y-you don't run...they always find you...b-br-bring you b-back...I tried, I..."

Kvothe scowled. I don't know? I don't know?

"...I f-failed...it was this or..."

"Or what?" His voice was soft, nearly a whisper, but he might as well have been yelling in the silence that filled the room. He stalked a few steps nearer to her, never letting his eyes leave hers. The Mythos still flooded into him, and he motioned toward her, moving it as he willed. Tendrils of the air stirred around her. The energies twined around her arms, legs and torso and pulled to ease her gently from the wall, as far as her chains would allow her to go.

As he did that, Fas--who'd been watching passively from where he was sitting, near the entrance--started to stir. Kvothe's emotions were starting to carry over through the bond and that was starting to make Fas restless. He paced this way and that, his tails twitching about behind him in an agitated fashion. Blue light flashed to red and then to blue again as the flickercat stopped to stare at the girl. The waves of animosity--of near-burning hatred--that rippled from Kvothe at the sight of the girl were enough to concur that she must have been an enemy. The fur on the back of Fas' neck started to stand. He hissed, baring his fangs at her, and the flickers turned blood red. They did not go back to blue.

"Or they would have killed you?" Kvothe went once the prisoner was held out as far as she could go without ripping the chains from the wall. "Is that it? Is that the fate you feared so much that you turned?" He spat at her. He spat on her. "You are a traitor, girl. And you are a craven."

Some part of him tried to rise up. Tried to reason. Tried to make himself see that she was not what he was making her out to be, that what he was doing, what he was going to do was over the line.

Kvothe crushed that voice.

No remorse. No redemption.

She was a traitor. She could not be forgiven. And he could not be weak.

"So instead, you joined them." The red from earlier returned, rimming his golden irises. "You gave in to their demands, and took up arms against your own people--against your brothers and sisters within the order." Fury welled within him.

Without warning, his hand jerked back and the hold he had on her through the Mythos with it, pulling her, straining her body against the bonds that held her. Then power surged within him and he threw his hand forward and let loose a powerful blast of air that ruffled his hair and set his robes to rippling about him. The prisoner was thrown back into the wall. Hard. Very hard.

"Is that what you thought would be better? Huh?!" Now Kvothe made no effort to hid his fury; he was very nearly yelling at her. "Your sob stories don't mean a damn thing to me, girl--you blew any chance of redemption when you decided to fight for them. And what did it get you? You haven't changed your fate."

The Mythos stirred again at his will. The air around her neck seemed to congeal and tightened as he brought his hand up in front of him and started to close it, as though it were around someone's throat. As his iron grip tightened on her through the Mythos, she would find herself struggling to breathe, if she could breathe at all.

"Your death was certain the moment we captured you, girl," Kvothe said darkly, dangerously. "Now you will die a traitor. And I swear to you, if you don't want me to make you feel the most pain you've ever felt, you're going to tell me where you were taking her, and you're going to tell me now."

He released his hold on her and stood there, waiting to see what she did. Part of him wanted her to just talk and get it over with. Unfortunately, it was a small part. The rest hoped she'd resist, make things difficult.

Then he could take his frustrations out on her. And harming her through the Mythos would only satisfy him for so long.

[A®heim]

"Or what?"

Never before had such soft words felt like such a slap in the face. She flitched noticeabley when he spoke them. The hatred. The pure utter hatred in those words were unlike anything she had ever heard. Not in the Unum. Not in the fleeting life she lived before that. She refused to look at him--to see the rage behind such words. Eyes that almost seemed to glow in the shadows cast by the coming evening onset darted around the room, trying to find something. Anything but the figure before her. She noticed for the first time that the Besalisk was no longer at his post. This did nothing to lighten her spirits. If her interrogator didn't need a guard...

She was pulled forward suddenly, a new pain exploding in her as the iron bounders sheared across the burns on her arms. Burns inflicted by her own Mythos turned against her in the mountains. She was suspended now, hanging just as helplessly in the air--the bindings that strained against her the only anchor. Her eyes found something else then she had not noticed, attracted by the light she found herself blinking in surprise. A flickercat?

In her childhood on Aiaru, she had always wished for one of the beautiful creatures. She had found them fascinating, often taking playful jaunts through the woods hoping to come across one. She never had and the only flickers she had ever seen were pictures in the archives and the small plush cub she used to use to fall asleep. Now that she was at last laying her eyes upon the real thing it glared and hissed at her with a rage mirrored from its master. The small shred of a happier past that had been conjured at its sight shattered. Fas wanted her dead as much as Kvothe.

They were too late. She was already dead--a corpse kept cruelly from rest that would never come.

Slowly, she brought her eyes up to meet his. She immediately wish she hadn't. The monster her mind had been making him out to be as she looked away was a fragile figment compared to the harsh reality. Her head shook in jerky motions. "D-death would be generous.....everything." She looked deep into his eyes, momentarily piercing their hate-petrified surface, Looked down into him, through him. Those eyes...she knew them well. "They take everything."

Another memory flashed. A much less pleasant one. She stood over he brother, barely recognizable through the burns that covered his skin and singed his clothes. He and her father were all she had left since mother died in the accident 6 years ago. Father lay by the door in a pool of his own blood, eyes wide and unseeing, a deep gash torn into his torso. A figure stepped out of the shadows of the doorway. A figure with a sword at his hip, a mocking smile, and eyes that burned through her in their idle amusement.

"So instead, you joined them." The red from earlier returned, rimming his golden irises. "You gave in to their demands, and took up arms against your own people--against your brothers and sisters within the order."

His words brought her back to the room, and for the first time she was almost grateful to find herself there instead of the nightmare that had come up to haunt her. Now she knew what fueled this man's rage. She understood. Her eyes hit him with that instant of understanding just as she was flung back against the wall. Her mouth parted in a silent cry as the wind was bludgeoned from her lungs by the force of the impact. Her head rang and her entire body burned with a dull fire. A trickle of blood ran down from underneath one of the wrist bindings.

Yet her eyes did not change. The pain had long since drained from them, though the fear was still evident. From behind the fear, however, was a new emotion. Was it remorse? Pity? "You're him. You're Kvothe." She whispered only nothing came as something constricted around her throat. Air was rushing about her face, causing her hair to billow out and keeping oxygen from reaching her gasps. Her eyes closed, the pain visible now in her contorting facial features. She did her best to suppress them, to go quietly, hoping for end to come in peace.

Her chest began to burn and her already pale face went began to go pallid. Maybe on another day she would have tried to scream--to beg whatever powers might be mercy, for release. But this day offered no purchase for such things and as the fire in her lungs raged hotter and her vision blurred, fate presented one last test.

A second current of air cut imperceptibly through her invisible noose, parting it in such a precise manner that she could once more draw breath though Kvothe had not yet abated. With this sudden renewed strength she gave him a final, longing stare and mouthed only those two words. "You're him."

The wind suddenly dropped, her savior current drifting away just a moment after the offending gale. "Your death was certain the moment we captured you, girl. Now you will die a traitor. And I swear to you, if you don't want me to make you feel the most pain you've ever felt, you're going to tell me where you were taking her, and you're going to tell me now."

Kvothe. It was not shouted, yet the single word echoed through the room with far more vindication than should have been possible considering its source.

Magnus stood in the fading light of the doorway, his staff held upright and slightly angled away from him. The dull glow from the rod's tip just barely illuminated half of his face, the shadows accentuating the glower and adding to the predatory curve of the beak and gleam of the eye. The air in the room seemed to freeze, bringing down a terrible deafening silence.

[Rugs]

Something moved as he held the girl. Something intangible, that couldn't be seen. It tickled the edges of his perception, taunted his senses to try and find it. Focused as he was on strangling the girl, though, Kvothe didn't pay it any mind.

It wasn't coming from her, it wasn't doing anything to him, and as such, he didn't rightly give a damn.

"You're him."

She said it. Mouthed it. He caught it this time; the time before, he hadn't heard her as his power stopped the air in her throat, hadn't been able to make out the pain movements of her mouth. Who? he wondered after he let her go and delivered his ultimatum. It was the only thing he had time to wonder.

"Kvothe."

It was a single word. It wasn't shouted, wasn't said with any notable hints of anger. It struck him hard, seeming to move past his flesh and to the core of his being.

Why?

His mind's eye moved back in time at the sound of the voice.

He was eighteen. He was in his family's suite in the safety of the Tower.

No, maybe it wasn't so safe.

The normally tidy main room was in disarray. Books had been thrown everywhere. Vials lay shattered on the smooth floor, loose pieces of paper were scattered all about. The table had been moved out of its place and thrown against the wall, marring it visibly. A chair was flipped. The couch had a deep cut in it from a blade.

Oh, his head hurt! His entire body ached, but his head!

Why couldn't he make himself get up?

Why did his vision go in and out of focus?

Why was he struggling not to pass out?

A figure loomed over him. Who was it? Vorian. Well that made sense. That was the way things always went. No matter how hard he fought. No matter what tricks and techniques he tried. Vorian was always there, looming over him.

A fight! That's what was happening, they'd been fighting. And Vorian had thrown him into the wall. Hard.

This fight was different than the others, though. Those were practice. Spars. Frustrations and the ever-burning sibling rivalry spilled into them sometimes, yes, but they were never that serious. Even with a strained relationship, they were still brothers.

This fight wasn't like that. They weren't fighting as brothers anymore.

They were fighting as enemies.

Something gleamed dangerously in the air in front of him. It was his staff; Vorian held it aloft with the Mythos, single-bladed end pointed toward him. Vorian's eyes were very hard.

Why couldn't he make himself move? It was like his muscles were just ignoring his commands. His breathing was labored.

Oh Mythos, but his head hurt!

Pietas, the staff, shifted before him at a motion of Vorian's fingers. It drew back, in the way a javelin's drawn back before being thrown. Except it wasn't pointed up through the air. It was pointed at him.

He felt energy surge around his brother as the door started to slide open. The staff adjusted in the air as Vorian steadied it, aiming it at Kvothe's chest.

He wasn't going to kill Kvothe, was he?

Vorian's arm went back, and the staff went back even further. It started forwar-

"VORIAN!"

Everything came crashing to a halt. The staff dropped from the air. Vorian's eyes went wide.

Kvothe's father stood in the doorway. Uriel. He didn't say another word. He didn't need to.

Kvothe would never forget the look of absolute shock that sat on Vorian's face...

The silence in the dungeon was deafening.

Kvothe licked his lips and turned his head to gaze with gold and red eyes at the source of the voice. He knew who it was before he saw the short figure standing there in the dim light. He knew it from years of familiarity.

It was Magnus.

Librarian. Friend. Mentor. All of these words could be use to describe the sage old Rishii, at least for Kvothe. He was one person that the young Sword was always happy to see.

This moment marked a change.

Magnus stared at him.

Kvothe stared back.

It was strange, the way the absence of sound could change a place, could create this strange... heaviness that surrounded you, pressed down upon you.

As he looked at the older Mythic, Kvothe could tell he wasn't pleased. Why? Had he heard what he said to the girl? Had he seen Kvothe hurl her into the wall. It didn't matter. He was doing what he had to do--a duty that was his by right. And he'd be damned if anyone stopped him.

"Magnus," came his reply as he turned back around, shifting his attention once more to the girl. She still hadn't spoken. She still hung there in her chains, as if she'd be getting sympathy from her.

Well, he'd warned her.

He took a step closer to her. "Why are you down here?"

Two steps. "What do you want?"

Three steps, and he was in front of her. Near enough to touch her. Near enough to hurt her. His hand clenched into a fist. His muscles tensed and then his arm blurred, carrying it into the girl's side. He hit one of her floating ribs. He heard it, no, felt it crack on impact. How much damage had been done, he couldn't say, but was going to make it clear that he wasn't playing with her.

The same eyes, filled with the same hatred, looked up at her. There wasn't any remorse to be found in them.

No remorse. No redemption.

"Talk."

[Jace]

Even now they still looked at him as if he were evil itself. As he strode through the hallways of the Tower, he continued to receive disapproving looks. It had always been so but one would have thought they would've gotten used to his presence by now. He had never really cared for what others thought about him, but even he got slightly annoyed by these stares. He had been named a Blood Mythic, and from what he had learned, they didn't have a very good reputation.

Though being ignored is much better than what I have to deal with

Yes. Those fools who were determined to make his life miserable. Of course, that was probably also another reason for the stares. Their recent encounter in the mountains had not gone unnoticed and neither had the fact that they had a prisoner. Cruentus for once believed that this prisoner could give him a solid lead on his sister. Indeed that was where he was headed now, but he did so at a cautious pace. The Mythic needed to figure out exactly how he would attain the necessary information.

Cruentus had learned that Kvothe was taking care of the interrogation. He wondered if that was a smart choice considering his experience on the mountain. The last thing he needed was this prisoner's skull bashed in before he could find anything out. No, he would go to the dungeon and assess the situation before deciding how best to proceed.

As he descended towards the dungeon, the Blood Mythic could feel his weariness. The fight earlier had left him taxed, and he had little rest since then. There was time to rest later, he didn't have the luxury of time at the moment though. This Vorian seemed to have influence in the Unum, definitely in the higher levels. If this woman knew anything about finding him or others like him, it would be great progress from Cruentus.

Finally arriving at the dungeon, Cruentus stood before the large Besalisk guard. The two stared at each other for close to a minute in complete silence. The guard then shifted his posture and allowed Cruentus to go by. He didn't really like to speak, and if he could avoid it, he would. Cruentus had a reputation in the tower and his appearance was well known, apparently so much so that even this dungeon guard knew. He could sense the presence of three others, though one of them was quite diminished. No doubt it was the prisoner.

The Blood Mythic was surprised to see Magnus down here. The Rishii didn't seem to be the type to take part in interrogation, well atleast not this type. He had stopped a little behind Magnus and remained silent, apparently he had arrived at an awkward time. Even from his position, he could tell that Kvothe had already begun his 'work'. Indeed he continued his conversation with Magnus as he proceeded to punch the girl hanging from the chains.

Cruentus was almost reassured by the fact that Kvothe, a person he considered completely useless, seemed to know what he was doing.

[A®heim]

"What is it?"

"Etherium. It will make you stronger."

"It's a drug, isn't it."

"Yes."

"I don't want it."

"What you want is unimportant."

The needle jabbed into her skin.

______________________________________

"Magnus"

A look of mocking acknowledgement and that single word were all that Kvothe gave to the old rishii who had only ever been a trusted mentor, an ally, a friend. Then he punched her. A small ripple emanated from the point of impact--a quick effort to lessen the blow by a skilled ventakinetic--but skill alone had not prepared Magnus for Kvothe's actions. The Rilan's eyes told him of the state of rage he was in. It was a trait long observed by the Infomancer since Uriel's initiation all those years ago, but the blow crossed a line he had not thought to draw with dear little Algaterra. The ripple did something else, however, Kvothe would feel the kinetic energy recoil against his fist as he struck--not enough to knock him over, but enough to make it clear he was not to try such a thing again.

Unfortunately for the cathar, it wasn't enough. Shadows accentuated with a blinding cacophony of sparks blurred across her vision and she felt a sharp crack. Felt it pop, yet felt no pain. No further pain that is. The end was near and she knew it--at this point she couldn't be sure if she would have thanked the newcomer for trying to lessen her pain, or to curse him for dragging out the agonies of the inevitable.

The look she gave to Magnus betrayed neither of these emotions--only pain. Darkness consumed her vision and she fell slack against the chains unconscious.

You have taken this too far. Your actions betray the Mythic's ways. His voice lost none of its sternness but was now underlaid with a darkened tone of vindication. He kept his staff close and the presence of the Mythos remained tight around him ready for a possible lash out by the rilan. Magnus had seen it in those eyes--that anger that threatened to break all bounds of reason to let the tide of emotion flood through him. That anger he had only ever seen mirrored in the eyes of Kvothe's brother. There had always been a level of concern for the youngest Algaterra, but now it had been replaced with fear. Fear of what Kvothe would be willing to sacrifice for vengeance. Fear of what he would sacrifice.

His glare fell, the grip on his staff slackening. He sighed and his tone became softer, quieter. I have only ever wanted to protect you, Kvothe, even from yourself. You have endured pain some would use to justify any action, this I understand, but you are a Sword of Diligence. You swore an oath to our order to put it before your own emotions. A coldness swept over him as a presence approached. Cruentus' influence on the Mythos all around them was always palpable and unpleasant--the ugly scars of his practices extended far beyond the flesh. She is willing to cooperate, but cooperation is difficult when you're dead. I'm sure even Cruentus realizes the value of conscious negotiations.

_________________________________________________

She shivered in her dim, stone tomb. The cold of the mountains sunk through the frozen soil, permeated the stone, and radiated into her bare flesh. Her head was buried in her knees and she rocked slowly back and forth. The clatter of a wrought-iron gate echoed through the chamber but she paid no notion to it--unhearing. A small, brown-robed bimm stepped in, peeking meekly from beneath a frayed hood. "How are you feeling?" His voice was timid as if he were afraid it would hurt her.

She continued to rock, responding it panicky, rasping whispers. "Make them stop, please. Make them go away. Make them leave me alone. Please. Please. I don't want to see. I close my eyes but the images remain. Why don't they go away? Make them go away."

"It's the etherium. You're going through a violent withdrawal." He set down a small tray of bread and water and turned as if to leave. He froze however, a coldness cloaking his heart as he watched the cathar's anguish, yet he could not look away. With a sigh he looked furtively around the room and knelt back down beside her. A tiny tial was produced from within his robes. "I made a tonic that will lessen the effects. It's supposed to be for those more...compliant intitiates, or those whose wills were long ago shattered."

She said nothing so he emptied the vial's contents into the water and began again to leave.

"T-thank you, Desif."

He swallowed and refused the urge to go back, to try to ease the young girl's pain further. The door clinked shut behind him.


((p.s. YAKITORI!))

[Rugs]

Impact was made.

All the old familiar feelings that had come from years of fights--years of doling out blows that carried enough strength to break bone--were there. The feeling of the flesh being forced away under his fist. The feeling of her bone resisting against the force of his blow before it failed and cracked.

All of these were expected, and Kvothe felt a grim satisfaction creep through him as he felt the bone shatter under the force of his righteous fury.

However, there was something else there; something else that most definitely should not have been there.

It sat over the point of impact like a thin film, one that sent ripples out through the Mythos when Kvothe hit it. While it wasn't enough to stop the damage Kvothe intended to inflict, it absorbed it. Weakened it. Dulled it.

Satisfaction quickly faded, replaced by surprise.

But the film, the barrier, the... whatever it was didn't stop at merely taking some of the force out of Kvothe's punch. It pushed back against him, and harder than he might have expected. He shifted his leg back to ground himself against the pushback, as surprise turned to anger that brought a dark, twisted scowl to his face. Was it the girl's doing? No, it couldn't be; not with the condition she was in. Someone was trying to send him a message.

Someone was trying to make him stop.

Magnus.

Kvothe closed his eyes, trying to hold back the ripple of fury that threatened to sweep through his presence. Magnus was still a friend. Magnus was only trying to do what he thought was right.

Magnus was getting in the way.

Magnus had challenged Kvothe's authority, had challenged him on a duty that was his by right, after all pain he'd been through at the hands of the Unum. At the hands of his brother.

So be it. Let the old Rishii that now was not a time that Kvothe would be trifled with.

His eyelids slid up again, revealing irises that were the color of blood through and through. Kvothe straightened his stance, setting his shoulders as if preparing for a fight and turned around, locking those carmine eyes squarely on the Rishii. His presence flared. The air inside the cell shifted, sighing just enough to tease the end of his sash and his hair before it faded away. It was a flexing of his muscle in the Mythos--an oddly uncharacteristic move for the Sword. Kvothe knew he was powerful, but he normally wasn't the sort to brag about it or use it as a bludgeon to intimidate--that was the sort of thing Vorian did when he was still around the Tower--but he was making a point now.

He would not stop what he was doing. Not for Magnus, not for anyone. Kvothe spoke not a word, but there was a silent challenge in that glare that Magnus got. A challenge that told him to mind his own business.

The Rishii, however, seemed to be having none of it. He didn't back down from Kvothe or his warnings, but instead spoke, and spoke words that made Kvothe's eyes narrow slightly. Dangerously.

" You have taken this too far. Your actions betray the Mythic's ways.

Betrayal. Kvothe's lips pulled back ever so slightly into a snarl, and his hands clenched into tight fists.

It was not a word to be tossed about lightly. Not for this particular Rilan, anyway. There was an incredible weight on the word. There was damnation on the word. Kvothe had betrayed nothing. The girl, though... she'd betrayed them. Betrayed her brothers and her sisters. Turned her back on them.

And Magnus said Kvothe was the one that betrayed their ways?

Anger, only growing hotter, rippled through his presence.

He listened to Magnus speak, but said nothing. Not yet. The mention of Cruentus only got a brief, acknowledging flick of his eyes to the brooding Blood Mythic before they settled on Magnus again.

Magnus knew what Kvothe had been put through. He knew what horrors awaited Iri. He knew that they would stop at nothing to tear the Order down to its knees.

Why, then, did he seem to be defending one of them?

Kvothe snorted. "You're a doctor," he said, with a voice that was flat and hard, one that he was very clearly working to keep the anger out of, "you keep her alive, if her life is worth so much to you." It was a brief, nearly flippant dismissal of Magnus' ablities--abilities that had saved the Sword's life not two days ago.

"But I will do what needs to be done," he said, turning to face the girl once again as his hand brushed across the hilt of his dagger.

He took a step toward the girl. Once again, his hand went to the hilt of his dagger, but it grabbed it this time. "Whether you like it or not." Metal rasped on leather as he pulled it free from its sheath. The two prongs of the weapon glinted dangerously in the light, but only for an instant before he moved forward, stabbing the weapon deep into the unconscious girl's shoulder. He didn't care if she felt it or not. This was a message.

Kvothe looked back to Magnus, once again challenging him, daring him to do something with his gaze. Then the dagger twisted before it came free. It dripped with blood; blood that ran down onto Kvothe's hand. He stared at it for moment and then snorted, swinging the blade out in an arc before him that was pointed slightly at the ground. Droplets of blood would fly free of that blade, and most would fall in a gently curving line that came up to within a half foot of Magnus' feet.

It, like many of the things Kvothe had done, was a challenge. A statement.

"The girl will die, Magnus," he said almost matter-of-factly as he sheathed the blade and started to walk for the door. "Nothing will change that. But she will die when I deem it necessary."

He paused near Cruentus, regarding the blood Mythic with the same blood-red gaze he'd given Magnus. "Do what you will. But make sure she does not die."

"I'll be back for her," he called back to Magnus as the door slid open. "Until then, she's in the hands of Cruentus." He turned on his heel and stepped through the threshold, and with a clack of his tongue for Fas to follow, he was gone.

[Jace]

Cruentus was beginning to get slightly bored with the current situation. Kvothe's childish tantrum wasn't accomplishing anything other than slowly killing the Cathar. The Blood Mythic cared nothing for the Cathar's well being but before she died, he needed information from her. Cruentus didn't think he needed to interfere, at least, not yet. Magnus was also present, though the presence of the Rishii seemed to be making things worse.

Part of Kvothe's fury was turned to Magnus as the elder Mythic registered his disgust for the former's actions. Cruentus could feel the Mythos gather around Kvothe but made no indication that he was going to do anything. Magnus was right though, they couldn't learn anything from the girl if she was unconscious. The Rilan didn't seem to care much for what Magnus had to say though. Instead he drew his dagger, and turned back to the Cathar. Now Cruentus began to worry and carefully began to gather the Mythos to him. There was no need though as he watch Kvothe stab the prisoner in the shoulder. He watched as the Cathar screamed back into consciousness.

The Blood Mythic looked at Kvothe's blood red eyes as he made to leave the room. Cruentus almost wanted to scoff at the other Mythic giving orders about who was in charge, and who got to kill who. There were a great many things that he could have said at the moment but he chose to remain silent. Who knows what sort of stupid things Kvothe would do in his current state.

"Magnus" spoke Cruentus for the first time since he had come down to the dungeon. "I believe she needs your attention"

Cruentus stepped forward and as he did he watched the Cathar visibly flinch.

Good

At least she understood enough to see that Cruentus was no saint. Her eyes pleaded for pity but there was none to be found from the Blood Mythic. The old Rishii had been right though, the Cathar was already broken, torture didn't seem overly necessary at this point. Instead Cruentus took a step back, and waited for Magnus to tend to her bleeding shoulder. The Cathar would bleed out soon if they didn't deal with the wound immediately. Once Magnus had finished with his healing, Cruentus took a step forward once more. He let her stare into his dangerous deep green eyes for a full minute before finally speaking.

"I need to know where the Unum are holding a certain person. Daria Tersek"

Moments later the inevitable response came in a tone of desperation "I don't know. I swear"

He could see the truth in her eyes, she wasn't the first Unum member he had interrogated. She didn't seem like she was anywhere near the higher ranks of the accursed organization. The Cathar also seemed to realize that Cruentus was nothing like the Mythic who had been beating her before. Kvothe was just a child venting his frustration, brutally, but none the less a rarity of his true nature. Cruentus on the other hand was a much colder being, one who had a deeper and darker connection to the Mythos and the galaxy.

Cruentus spared a moment to consider the other presence in the room, Magnus. The Rishii was now aware that the Blood Mythic was searching for someone. No doubt Kvothe had realized that Cruentus hadn't been standing in the dungeon just to watch his little tantrum. None of the Mythics knew Cruentus' true identity, and thus would never be able to truly understand why he searched for Daria. His search for his sister was the only thing that tied him to Mythics, though they did not know it. The only person alive who knew his true identity was his sister.

Once again, he stood in silence, waiting for the answer he wanted to hear. If she did not answer soon, then he would have to resort to other methods. He didn't think he had much time either, Kvothe was unpredictable at best in his current state. Cruentus couldn't say when the other Mythic would waltz in here and kill the Cathar. He gave the Cathar one last icy stare and then she broke.

"I swear I don't know anything...but I might know someone who does"

Cruentus' answer was silence and a few moments later the Cathar continued.

"Desif...his name is Desif"

[A®heim]

"Is it ready?" The voice came faintly from a nearby. It was calm, assured, the voice not of a captive but of a capturer. She loathed and was terrified of that voice.

"Yes yes! Right on schedule it is! Just a few twists....quirks here and...Haha! It lives! See? Eeheehee!" Another voice, another twisted, manic laugh, both strange to her. The tone was wreathed in a madness rarely encountered outside of a madhouse, though this horrid place had started to seem as such. "Needs to test it...Harri needs to make proof..."

"Why don't we test your contraption on the girl?"

"Kee-kee-kitty cat! Yes! The perfect candidate eheeeeeere kittykittykitty..." The voice was getting nearer, almost as distressing to her heightened senses as the threatening whirrs and creaks that accompanied it. When the source of the noise came into view, she wasn't sure what to be more disturbed by: the decrepit, hunched over figure with the soot-coated goggles, shaggy hair, and a smile short several members of the choir, or the ominous spider-like droid lurching along behind him. "Made you a...hehe...new toy. Come...come! Why not chew on it? Or can it chew you?!"

The cell slid open again with that teeth scraping clatter and the two voices and one spider made themselves at home. She stared at the thing. It stared back with a single large red photoreceptor, rusted legs shakily plucked the rock like the strings of some evil harp, propelled by pulleys and cables leading into the body of the beast. Beneath the merciless red eye, a long, thin needle flared with heat--a fusion cutter, likely salvaged in low-condition by the way it sputtered, dripping white-hot plasma to meet icy stone. The product of a twisted mind loomed over her crippled body while its creator fidgeted with the many exposed parts, muttering and chortling maniacally to himself.

"Take this, it will dull the pain." Desif had told her this only minutes ago, slipping a small white pill onto her tray before scurrying away. She hadn't touched it. It wouldn't make a difference at this point.

The molten lance drove into her shoulder. She was wrong.


_________________________________________________________________


She screamed back into consciousness. The cutter had been replaced with a wicked, two-pronged dagger. Magnus flinched, barely suppressing the urge to throw Kvothe through a wall. A very thick, stone wall. The look the Sword gave him, such pure defiance, a challenge the rishii longed to accept--this brash young Mythic needed to be put into his place. The air stirred when Kvothe flexed his power, but it was not from him. Something horrible occurred to him then and the air returned to stillness: the boy whose life he had tended to--memories both joyful and tragic--was trapped in a downward spiral that only plummeted him further into darkness. If this continued, the day he would be forced to accept the challenge may soon be upon him.

He didn't want it to happen. Not like this. He wanted to stop Kvothe before he left the room, ask him what had him so troubled, what could be done. He knew the answers as well as he knew there was nothing he could do to help--he was a mentor no more. The door closed behind Kvothe. Magnus could only stare after him, his mind a turmoil of emotions--anger and indignation festered alongside loss and fear. He felt, for a fleeting moment the mind of Seek, the Qom Qae he shared a mental link with, brush a questioning emotion against his own.

"Magnus," spoke Cruentus for the first time since he had come down to the dungeon. "I believe she needs your attention.

The voice of the Blood Mythic snapped him out of his troubled mind. He nodded and stepped towards the wounded cathar. Blood soaked into his robes and his claws left distinct prints in the sanguine liquid. Blood. He was used to blood, but not to shedding it--this wound was serious, she could quickly bleed out from it.

Damn that boy... He muttered to himself and produced one of the many drawstring pouches kept in his robes. Herbal salves, medicinal roots, powdered magnalui quill, etherium. None of them were labeled, but he knew each and every content as well as he knew how many left feet he had. His mind radiated a soothing aura, partially to relax the girl to keep her from going into shock, and partially to relieve his own mind of what he had just witnessed.

The cathar's eyes were closed, but she was still conscious. She winced when the antileen nettle ointment was applied to her wound--painful, but it would keep it from getting infected. Next came a mixture of powdered cragtop shell and zyphter venom--the unique proteins in the shell reacting with the venom to almost reverse its effect, repairing flesh instead of deconstructing it. This would help with the blood clotting and healing of the tear in general. However, it still had to be closed up, something Magnus needed his medical table and alchemist's bag to achieve. No sutures meant no stitches.

The calming waves ceased as he prepared himself for what had to be done. Placing one hand on the girl's shoulder, he could feel the tendrils of his Mythos latch onto her own aura. With a soft glow, the wound sealed itself. Magnus stumbled back, breathing heavily, drained. Cruentus stood next to him. He looked up at the blood Mythic with large, amber eyes. If there was one person in the Tower the rishii knew most about, it certainly wasn't him.

Please. Don't hurt her any further. For all our sakes.

He watched warily while Cruentus proceeded with his own, surprisingly more civil interrogation. When Cruentus had joined the order several years past, there had been little ceremony, no senior Mythic barging through the Tower hall shouting, "Look who I found!" He was simply there one day, shrouded in an impenetrable cloak of mystery. Very few knew anything of his former life. Fewer dared to ask. His identity was ambiguous--his name brought no viable matches in the databank--but now something more of it was being revealed. Daria Tersek... the name struck a chord of familiarity with Magnus, something he had read or heard. He was too tired to pinpoint the memory within the millions of others roiling about in his dusty old head.

The cathar, slightly more conscious thanks to (or unfortunately due to) the healing efforts of the rishii, was rattled by this new Mythic. Not just a new face, but an entirely new breed of Mythos-wielder she had never even heard about. His aura was cold, his mind radiated no stray emotions perceptible from most living beings. What was this thing? It frightened her, more so than the tantrum-throwing Sword, more than any of Harri's machines. She was being interrogated by some horrific mixture of the two--a powerful force in the Mythos with the cold, emotionlessness of a machine. Except once. The tinniest wisp of a feeling streaked across her consciousness when he spoke the name he was searching for. Whether it was anger, sadness, or empathy she could not tell, it died away too quickly. And that stare...never wavering.

""I swear I don't know anything...but I might know someone who does."

The bimm, the only being that had shown her any smallest bit of compassion for what seemed an eternity. Could she give out his name? Could she condemn him to share her fate? This 'man' needed to know a name and she knew she had not been the only one the diminutive cloaked creature had cared for. He had told her once that he had been down in those dungeons for what seemed like years. Perhaps this Daria had at one time shared her misfortune. Why did this Mythic care? No, she couldn't do it, wouldn't. The bimm had been her only solace in the cold, her only candle in the darkness other than the tiny stump of the one in her cell that was never lit. Cruentus said nothing, continuing the icy stare.

"Desif...his name is Desif." The words came out before she realized she was speaking them. Her head lowered in shame, ears drooping even further. Had she just condemned the closest thing she'd had to a friend in this life to death? "H-he's...not one of them, I swear. They keep him in the dungeons...in the mountains. H-he takes care of the prisoners." Her eyes flickered to Cruentus and back down again before that stare could take hold of her again. "P-please, d-don't hurt him."

Desif was another name Magnus was not familiar with. Unsurprising, considering he seemed to have little to no life beyond stone walls. Another lead, another crusade. How he wished he never had gotten caught up in this.

Magnus? Sonatina, the rishii's Familiar peered around the corner of the doorway, her whiskers drooped low and tinged slightly yellow. I know no one's supposed to be down here without special directives, but my biorhythmic stress detectors have been going off the charts. I wanted to make sure everyone was alright.

Magnus sighed and leaned heavily on his staff. I wish I could say we were fine... He gave Cruentus a short nod and hobbled through the entranceway. Come Sona, we need to do research.

The Familiar lingered a moment after the rishii departed, looking between Cruentus and the cathar several times with an unnatural shred of sadness synthesized across her face. She was a psycho-analyst, yet so far any opportunities she came across where her abilities would be useful didn't care for her attendance. With a last questioning glance, she hesitantly slinked from view to follow her partner back up to the library.

The cathar murmured again. "Please...don't hurt him..."

[Jace]

The plea from Magnus to cause no more pain was almost entirely useless for two reasons. One, any more pain and the Cathar would either pass out or die from shock, and that didn't help him at all. The other being that if Cruentus was in a situation where he thought torture was necessary, words would not sway him otherwise, especially not those of an old Rishii.

He had got a name though, Desif, though the nature of his identity was yet to be uncovered. She had also given a location, vague, but it was a start. It sounded as if he was low in the hierarchy but he considered it a step forward. The Unum was a organization like one he had never known. Their secrets were layered upon other secrets, a coating of deceit which shrouded any truth. Cruentus had worked years to try and infiltrate their order, but to no avail. The Unum was not to be taken lightly, but they had made a mistake making an enemy out of the Blood Mythic.

Cruentus watched as Magnus left the room, no doubt to find out about this man named Desif. Though the Rishii had done his best to heal her, Kvothe had done some serious damage. He could see her waxing on unconsciousness, muttering continuously the phrase "Please don't hurt him". Whether or not he did depended completely on Desif, though his experience with Unum members suggested pain would be involved.

The Bloody Mythic lingered for a moment, he needed a few minutes to gather his thoughts. He had a name, a location, all that was left to do was figure out where exactly. Cruentus assumed Magnus was doing exactly that, so he would be patient. He had his own sources but such things took time. One reason he joined the Mythics was for their expansive resources and information.

He gave the Cathar one last glance before turning around and heading out the cell. Though he had got the information he needed, something told him that her pain was not over yet, no matter what Magnus wished for. She was not his problem any more, Cruentus had more pressing matters now.

[Rugs]

Why doesn't he see? How couldn't he see it? The Sword was a veritable storm of emotions as he stalked through the Tower's halls. Many Mythics turned their heads at the telling blend of emotions that rippled off of him waves. Most moved aside. Those that didn't, like one young Draethos (if nearly two hundred years old can be considered young) were nearly powered over by Kvothe, whose trouble mind was anywhere but focused on who or what was in front of him.

His stride was long and swift, as if he were hurrying somewhere. His fists were clenched, his shoulders rolled forward and tight, as if he were about to start a brawl with the next person that looked at him the wrong way. The muscles along his jaw line stood out starkly on his face as he walked, jaw clenched, and the rest of him wasn't much looser.

Fas was at his heel, darting around people at a half-run to keep up with his troubled master. Red were flickers at the end of his tails, glinting dangerously under the sharp barbs that tipped them. Then blue for a few moments and then back to red again. If the flickercat's mood was sour, it was no fault of his own; there wasn't much he could do about it, with the way his bond with Kvothe worked. Irritable the feline may have been, but something was wrong. As the duo strolled along from one corridor, across another, and up into a winding spiral staircase, Fas looked up with wary amber eyes to Kvothe. Something was wrong with him. Something was bothering the young Rilan, deep down in the core of his being. The other Mythics could see it, just from the emotional thunderstorm that surrounded the man.

But what was it?

They exited the staircase a floor up. Now they found themselves in a large atrium near the rear of the Tower. Sunlight, pure and clean, spilled in through the great windows that stretched up for several stories. Knots of younger Understudies were scattered about on seats or cushions on the marble floor, playing board games with each other or studying in groups. Fas paused to look at them, but he wasn't given much opportunity to. Kvothe continued on without pausing, abruptly changing his course for one of the doors partway across the great open area. Fas followed.

One of the Understudies, a young girl with short brown hair and a freckled face framed by a pair of glasses that looked just a bit too large for her, looked up at Kvothe's arrival. She wasn't the only one; even as untrained as the young ones may have been, they could sense the disturbance in the Mythos that Kvothe carried with him. But the girl didn't seem to mind. In fact, at seeing Fas trailing near Kvothe's heel, she jumped up and went to talk to him.

"Hi Mister," she called in her high, childish voice, "I'm Ariya. Is that a Flickercat you have with you? Can..." she paused, looking back to her friends for support when she noticed Kvothe hadn't stopped, or even slowed down; he didn't even seem to be paying attention to her at all. "Can we see him?"

Fas paused, tails flicking pensively behind him. His large eyes blinked at the girl for a moment and then at Kvothe, who was still walking toward the door as if there was someone outside for him to beat up. The Sword gave no answer.

Ariya, however, would not be so easily dissuaded.

"Miste-"

"Leave me be, girl." Kvothe did not yell at her, did not even raise his voice. But his words were curt, brusque, forceful. They left no room for argument. Putting his back against the door as he started to open it and step outside, he turned around to face them. His eyes were as mixed as the array of emotions that seeped out from him; red, gold, yellow, blue--an assortment of colors to fit the warring feelings within him. "Come, Fas."

Fas didn't move, not at first. The flickercat looked at Kvothe, and then to Ariya. He took a few steps to the girl and rubbed himself gently against her side, letting her pet his fur and purring softly. Then he was gone, skittering off after Kvothe.

Once he was finally outside, Kvothe moved along the balcony that arched over part of one of the Tower's many courtyards. A few more of his fellows, Understudies and full Mythics alike, sat outside, enjoying the clear, crisp midday weather. Several glanced at him as he passed them by, but he said nothing to them, and so they left him alone.

He walked to the end of the balcony, where there was no one else to bother him, and let himself collapse into one of the chairs. Fas settled onto his haunches near Kvothe's leg, looking up at him. Concern drifted back to the Mythic through the bond.

"I'm only doing what's right, Fas. I don't know why Magnus can't see that." Kvothe sighed tiredly and reached down to scratch his feline companion's head between the ears. "It's not like I want to kill the girl in cold blood. She's one of them. If she wasn't I'd have no trouble with her, but we can't change that, can we?"

The wind stirred, gently moving his hair as it blew along through the courtyard and across the balcony. It was times like these that he missed Fides. Surely his old Selonian friend would know what to say now. He always did. Fides would be able to see what Magnus didn't, right? I'm only doing what's right, he told himself. And if none of them have the strength to do it, then I'll do it myself. Because I know it's right.

Because I have the right, after what they did to me.

I'll show Vorian that I'm not weak. A finger drifted idle over the scar left behind from Vorian's dagger that slanted across his face. I'll show them all.

It wasn't as if he doubted what he knew he was going to do. He just needed time away from the others, all of them, to think. The Cathar girl had committed a grave crime. Worse, she'd played a role in Iri being taken. Kvothe's fists tightened again. Red pushed some of the other colors from his eyes. He wouldn't forgive her that. She deserved far worse than she was going to get.

Put her through what Iri will go through, what I went through. That would be justice.

But no, he'd go the high road and simply off her, as was his right. And not Magnus, not Cruentus, not even the High Elder would stop him from meting out his justice. The girl's fate was sealed, had been sealed the moment she'd been captured.

For now though, he'd wait. Clear his head. It wasn't like she was going anywhere.

---------------------------------------

He'd lost track of how long he'd been sitting out on that balcony, alone with no one but Fas and his thoughts to keep him company. It had been good to be alone, to get away from Magnus and his noise.

But he'd returned. There was never any question that he would. And as he stepped back into the cell, his eyes the color of burnished gold with a thin ring of red around them, he watched the girl. He was sure she was still hurting from what he'd done earlier. He didn't care.

"Celena." He spoke the word simply, in a tone that held hatred in its ice. "You are a traitor. You are a criminal. You are a fool." Metal rasped on leather and light glinted dully from the blades of his dagger he drew it from its sheath. "You are filth.

"Because of you, one of my comrades is now held prisoner by the Unum. Because of you, they'll put her through unimaginable horrors, just for the sake of having another little puppet to call their own." The ice in his voice was starting to melt; the fires of anger quickly began to replace it. Crimson filled his eyes. "Because of you and your kind, I was made to suffer for a year, for no other reason than because I chose to defy you.

"Because of you my best friend is dead!" His voice rose to a yell as he spoke to her, ascribing the sins of an entire faction to one individual. He didn't care. She was there, and he could take out his anger on her. "My comrades are dead! My father is dead! All because of you!"

In an instant, years of repressed fury filled him. The tide of anger, hot and violent pushed him, called for him for release. He obliged.

Before he even fully understood what he was doing, he swung out at her with as much strength as he could muster. His fist slammed into her being, and with it, he only hoped she'd understand some of the pain he'd been put through.

For a few moments afterward, he merely stood there, stewing in his rage. Finally, he looked up at her. Gone was the gold from his eyes, leaving only red behind, and--for the one that looked close enough--little flecks of black.

His grip tightened on his dagger.

"But no more, you hear me? You won't poison this world with your existence any longer." He raised the dagger, holding it before him. "I will make sure of that. As is my right."

He spat on her as he took a step closer to her. Up the dagger went, one of the blades resting against the front of her throat. Kvothe's lips twisted into a cruel mockery of a triumphant smile.

"Goodbye, filth."

The blade tore across her throat, tore through skin and fur and flesh, and he killed her.

[A®heim]

"Celena."

That name. Her name. Who had last spoken it?

"You have to eat, you're only letting them win by destroying yourself." Desif proffered the steel tray to the Cathar with her head buried in her knees. "It's what they want you to do so they don't have to get their hands so dirty." No answer. He knelt down alongside of her, his shy smile probably the warmest thing in a thousand miles. "They won't beat you this way, they can't. You're too strong to die this way, Celena."

Desif...he was all that was left now--a mere memory amongst a thousand nightmares. He had always used her name, treated her as person instead of an animal to be broken. That memory was but a flame from a sallow candle in a sea of burnt wicks, kindling its last few precious seconds of burning before it too became snuffed out. He had last said her name, but it was not him that spoke it at the end.

"You are a traitor. You are a criminal. You are a fool."

She heard his words, but they meant nothing to her--she never had anything to betray, a law to break. Only one of his charges was a true one: she was a fool. Foolish in believing hope had abandoned her, that will would bring only pain, and that she had long been acquainted with the night. She had none nothing but ignorance.

"Why do you run, Celena? Is it because you don't wish to realize your true potential? You cannot outrun your fate--it's always one. Step. Ahead."

"Because of you, one of my comrades is now held prisoner by the Unum. Because of you, they'll put her through unimaginable horrors, just for the sake of having another little puppet to call their own."

The girl. Their mission had been a success then. No, not their mission, her mission. Regret stabbed through her, an icicle only barely more chilling than that in Kvothe's voice. The Unum had suffered no loss from her capture; they had found a replacement, a far more valuable one. In her desire to escape her fate, she had sentenced another to its horrors.

Jeraud grabbed her wrist, burning needles stung at her skin as he mended the bone yet again. She could only wince, a hiss or a cry was a sign of weakness and would be punished. She counted the seconds in her head--1...2...3...--he was earlier this time, the blow coming from the side and catching her across the ear. The world went silent but for a piercing ring.

"Do not drop your guard, even for an instant! A foe won't take the time to heal you everytime they shatter one of your pretty little ribs." He offered her the end of his staff, the first moment she realized she had fallen over. She reached for it only to have it brought down upon her wrist with a sharp crack, no doubt breaking yet another joint. "They won't help you up either you moronic flake of zyphter excrement. Get up!"

"Because of you and your kind, I was made to suffer for a year, for no other reason than because I chose to defy you."

He barked the command and she scrambled up, blinking back the tears that had welled up when he broke her wrist. Her own wooden sparring staff lay several feet away in the snow. How she longed to feel the reverberations on that length of wood sting through her arm as it connected that cruel man's mocking grin. She dove for it. It leaped up and struck her. Jeraud snickered and shook his head. "Pathetic. I really don't know what they see in you. Why don't you show m-"

A bolt of lightning, fueled by pure hatred and vengeance interrupted him. Taking a hurried step back, he caught the arcing energy across his staff and channeled it harmlessly into the ground. "Ahh, so there's fight in you yet. Powerful, yet so predictable. You are a waste of my time and waste of your life."

"Because of you my best friend is dead!"

The glacial facade in his voice was gone, only raw and raging emotion remained. This was the vindication of one who had been through such that no normal man or woman should survive in both mind and body. This was a soul forever scarred by forces it longed not to be out of control of. They had led a similar story, Rilan and Cathar, but each had taken a separate path at a crucial crossroad and now their plots resolved to very different endings.

"Prove you worth, bring us back that girl, and you will be one of the Unum." One of them. Them in one; a murderer, a falsehood. A death sentence.

"My comrades are dead! My father is dead! All because of you!"

You're too strong to die this way, Celena. That candle flickered again, refusing to go out so close to the end. It refused to allow this girl to die alone in the dark, she could not die wallowing in worthlessness. With its light it illuminated another long-forgotten memory and a long-forgotten face...

"You're special, Celena, to all of us. You have a gift--a rare and beautiful gift, and in time you will learn why it was given to you. You will never be alone, and as they have you, no one you care about will be either."

She was not a fool. And this man, this half-crazed, tormented zealot, was not her enemy. It was clear to her now what could be done, what needed to be done to absolve herself. She began collecting those long burnt out wicks--memories sweet and bitter alike.

"But no more, you hear me? You won't poison this world with your existence any longer."

"Continue to defy us, and you will perish. Lend your strength to our cause, and you will perish. Your decision affects only how merciful your end will be."

"I will make sure of that. As is my right."

Could I have deserved anything less as my fate?

"Goodbye, filth."

Mercy.

Each moment, every memory, flashes of pain and sorrow alongside the joy of a life long gone, she had gathered together into a single, final drop of will, and in that last moment, as the blade reaped mortality from her, she committed her only true cruelty:

She gave it to him.

[Rugs]

The blade pushed forward. Its wicked edge tore through the flesh of her throat, making way for her life as Kvothe forced it from her body. A tide of feelings surged through him, even as he watched the act happen. None was stronger than triumph.

Here he had a victory in his war against the Unum. Here he had something to show the world--to show Vorian and Magnus, even Merdumbledalf himself--as proof of his resolve. Proof that no matter what, he would be the one to triumph in this war. And through his triumph, so too would the Tower triumph. No matter what stood in his way. No matter the cost.

But something else came as Celena's breath left her failing body, something he'd done nothing to stir up. There was a feeling of impact against his consciousness, and then...

There was a man in the snow before her. No, not before her. Over her. She was in the snow, Pain filled her being as his fingers wrapped themselves around her throat, pressing into her flesh. He said something. But what? What words could be coming from that mask of a face that bore such a twisted smile?

The dagger fell to the floor, shattering the fragile silence. Specks of blood flew this way and that as it bounced thrice before falling still. Shock wrote itself across Kvothe's face as he stumbled back, arms flying out as he tried to keep his balance. "What the hell?!"

The sun was warm, the breeze gentle as it whispered through her fur. Today was a special day. Mother had said it would be, and Father had a coy sort of excitement to him that he only showed when there was something good in store.

The speeder stopped near the top of a hill, and the family of three got out.

"Here we are," said Father, taking her with an arm around her shoulders. He grinned at her and motioned at the plains around them. "Isn't it grand?"

She looked around. Nothing but grass. It was certainly pretty out on the plains, but...

"Oh stop it," her mother called as she came over from the speeder. Everyone always said Celena looked just like her mother, even if her fur was the color of Father's. "You're confusing her."

Father laughed as he patted her shoulder. "Oh, she knows I'm just messin' with her. Here, come on, Celena." Both of her parents led her up to the top of the hill, smiles on their faces.

At the top, the directed her gaze down, as if she couldn't see what lay before them on her own. A huge canyon stretched out before them, dug out of the plains by the waters of the Celeano.

And there, inside the canyon, was a city. A great city, built into the sides of the rock, with countless bridges and walkways clinging to their sides or spanning the stretch between the two sides.

It was beautiful.

"That's Roua," she heard Mother say. "That's going to be our new home."

He was trying very, very hard not to scream. He'd fallen over and now he scrambled back across the floor away from her corpse. The dagger was ignored. The sense of triumph was forgotten, replaced by pure, abject horror as the phobia dug its roots through his mind.

His back hit the wall. It took a moment to register that he couldn't go any further.

Mythos save him, she'd done something to his mind. Even as she died, she'd touched it, forcing memories that were not his onto him. Now they flashed before him, assaulting him with images he didn't want to see. They were slow at first, but the grew faster, turning into cascade of images he couldn't draw any sense from.

He didn't care about her life. He didn't care about her joys and her pains.

All he wanted was for the assault to stop.

The images didn't know that, though, or if they did, they didn't care. On and on they came, an endless tide of hopes highest heights and the very pits of despair. All from this one girl's life.

On and on they came, until...

"We've been watching you, Celena," the figure in the doorway said. "Waiting for you." Her eyes widened slightly as she watched the figure step through the doorway. Toward her. He was tall, much taller than her, and his hair was black as midnight. She could see his shoulders through the gaps his clothing left over them. A symbol was inked into each of them.

Daggers of terror tore at her heart. She stepped back. Away from her father's corpse. Away from her brother. Away from the demon that smiled so callously at her.

"That's not important to you right now," he said. "What is," he stopped, titling his head slightly as his thumb idly brushed against his sword's pommel, "is that you're coming with me."

"I don't want to!" She said as tears soaked her face. "Go away, I won-"

She felt... something stir. Something ethereal. Something she couldn't touch or see, but something.

The demon's movement blurred, and in an instant he was standing right in front of her.

"I don't remember telling you you had a choice."

A hand gripped her upper arm. Hard. She tried to struggle, to free herself from this monster's grasp, but he was too strong.

"Let... Let me GO!" She screamed at the man. He just laughed and started to drag her away, toward the door. She swung at him with her claws.

He caught her wrist casually and smirked at her. His eyes... Was there another color working through them? Threads of silver? It was hard to tell against the slate grey...

"Now look, if you're going to be like that, I'm just going to make it easier on both of us, hm?" Before she could answer, he let her wrist go and then slammed a fist into her stomach. Her vision blurred as she doubled over, desperately trying not vomit. Something cracked against the back of her skull, and she fell over.

The world went black.

Silent. Everything was silent. The tide of memories stopped. Fas stood near him, looking at him with his head cocked to the side. His own breathing had gone silent, held captive in his throat.

It all came out with a weary sigh. What was that? He looked around the room with yellow-streaked eyes. Swallowing some of the fear down, he pushed himself back up to his feet. Celena was dead. But how? How did she... A shiver ran down his spine. He didn't want to know. Maybe Magnus would, if the old librarian would even talk to him after the day's events.

It could wait though. Right now Kvothe didn't want to see anybody

He stalked across the room and picked up the bloody dagger. He gave the girl's body a final look over. Blood had spilled out from the slit in her throat, pooling and staining the light brown fur around it.

Kvothe snorted.

He turned to leave, but then he paused. Something drew him to look over his shoulder again. Why? She was dead. Auburn brows furrowed and he turned around to leave.

The traitor was dead. He'd done what he was supposed to do, and he'd do the same every time if he had to repeat the choice.

"Come on, Fas." The door slipped open and he left the cell, leaving the body for someone else to take care of.

So why, why couldn't he shake the little voice of guilt from the back of his mind?