End of Days: Horizon Burning (Tristan)

[Megaera]

Continued from..



Dreaming River Valley

Alone in the darkness, only one witch remained from the seasons most advanced initiates. The task she had set before herself had not been to conjure a ball of flame, or to speak in the tongue of one long dead. She had not foretold the future, or taken possession of an animal. These were the tasks that most witches endeavored to replicate to demonstrate the level of their power. All suitably impressive, but ones that were quickly achieved, once they were mastered. Pass or fail, the others had left one by one. Her own trial was not so easily concluded.

Megaera sat curled with her arms around her bent knees rocking, forcing her breaths come slow and calm when all she wanted to do was scream in frustration and run from the cave. If she did that she could leave, true, but her trial would be over and she would have failed it. Some unnamed force kept her rooted to the spot, either faith or just plain stubbornness. It had been almost two days since she had slammed back into her skin after the mentally taxing effort it had taken her to remain out of her body for so long. She had unwillingly been drawn back into her surroundings, leaving her unaware of what had occurred at the Crucible arena after she had left, and too weak to do anymore.

All she could do now was wait, and put her faith in her own ability. Tristan had still been wearing her amulet when she had seen him last. That had been her true purpose. Before she'd ever sent him to the Selection, Megaera had spent a great deal of time and energy enchanting the pendant to become a Talisman of Finding, imbuing it with her own distinctive magic. When she was sure of her work, she had given it to him, that night on the Storm Feather clan grounds. She had pulled the chain from her own neck, and secured it around his, making him swear not to take it off, or let anyone else do so. As long as he had it, it would draw him to her like a rope. She thought about all that had happened since she had arrived.

Megaera had not been the only witch to cross forward into the cave that evening. From the darkest parts of their lands, other Nightsisters of similar age and training had also been sent to test their skills. She had joined the others wordlessly. None of them spoke so much as a word to another, remaining anonymous. They were not in competition, but that did not stop the thinly veiled animosity between some of the opposing clans from revealing itself from time to time. This was not the brutal battle ground of the Crucible arena, but it was no less a danger. Here your enemy would not cleave your head from your shoulders with a bladed weapon, but offend the wrong person within these stone walls and you were likely to find yourself the recipient of a very lasting curse.

As a group, they had been led deeper within the cavern. It was unlike anywhere Megaera had ever been. Every cave she had ever entered had been been cold. This one was almost oppressively humid. The cause being a natural hot spring, welling up from the depths into a crescent-shaped pool.. This was where the aspiring witches had parted company with each other. While she watched, the Sisters before her formed an almost orderly line leading to the water, an ancient place of power for the witches. Each was divested of whatever clothing she had arrived in, before finding herself dunked beneath the steaming surface. Presumable to purify their bodies? A thin black robe was pulled over each as they were led away from sight. When it was her turn, Megaera had gone without fear into the water. She was led to a room that was set up for quiet meditation, fragrant incense smoke curling like serpents through the air. Directed to lay still, she submitted herself to allowing some more adept witches to begin to adorn her body with painted runes.

"When will I see Helebor again?", she had finally asked when she couldn't hold her tongue another minute.

The woman finishing the patterns across her collarbones, had frowned down at her like she was daft. The other had been standing with her back to them, at work on some other necessary indignity, Megaera supposed. "They did not come in.", she continued. " Are they alright? Magda and Avarice?", she asked again, determined to get an answer out of them.

"How much Eye of Sarlaac did you give her?" The woman looking down on her asked, peering into Megaera's eyes.

"None yet!" The second woman turned away from the mortar and pestle where she had been crushing herbs to assist the young witch.

They quit talking to her after that, despite Megaera's further attempts, eventually leaving her on her own. As Matier had taught her, Megaera called to the power that waited behind the Mist. When it rolled through her body, coiling through her lungs and blood, she left her skin behind to jump the distance between where she was, and the Crucible Arena, where she would walk as a ghost for as long as she could maintain the form.

Which had regrettably not been long enough.

And now all she could do was wait. Weak fingers spilled water from a pitcher as she attempted to pour a cup to soothe her parched mouth. How long had it been? Two days? Three? She couldn't tell anymore.

[Tristan Alastor]

Blood.

There was blood under Tristan Alastor's fingernails. Some of it was even his own.

“This must be the first time you've seen such carnage, princeling,” the others had joked, breathless in their triumph. They were not wrong.

They had entered the Crucible as slaves and serfs and emerged as Nightbrothers, but there was no fanfare to announce their victory. No parade would be marched in their honour. There was no praise to be had. They rejoined their clans, not as heroes but as equals. They had earned the right to walk on even footing with the witches, but that was all.

One of the clans had lost a life to the Crucible. Tristan squinted over his shoulder at what was left of the man. The sisters spat on the earth and shook their heads as they walked away, leaving the corpse for the carrion crows. Soon, the dead and the crows would be the only ones left in the arena.

A heavy hand slapped Tristan on the back. “Come, brother,” urged a man whose face Tristan recognised only because he was almost certain that he had slammed a staff into it earlier.

“Tonight we feast. All the meat you can stomach – and perhaps even a woman too, if I don't see to them all first.”

Tristan's lips twisted for a moment, as if he'd caught the scent of something foul. A woman. It had been the thought of one woman in particular that had driven him through the Crucible. His wife. The longer he fought, the more he gave himself over to his emotions, the more he thought of her – but it wasn't love that motivated him. Razielle had never loved him, but he had been certain that she had not lied to him. How wrong he had been.

Tristan shook his head.

“I've no appetite.. brother,” he said, shrugging off the hand on his shoulder and ignoring the calls that came after him as he headed out of the Crucible. With minutes, his limping steps had become a persistent stride, in spite of the stabbing pain that shot through his left calf. He had somewhere that he needed to be and fast. Somewhere that he could feel himself drawn towards.

It was a pull that he had felt before – the same pull that had brought him to Dathomir in the first place, only stronger. A Nightbrother or not, he was as powerless to resist it now as he had been then.

[Megaera]

Time crawled on for Megaera at a torturous rate. The not knowing was doing nothing for her nerves, and she was far too spent from her extended journey from her body to devise any other way to ascertain Tristan's fate. She had paced barefoot back and forth through the underground chamber until the bottoms of her feet were sore and blackened with dirt. When frustration got the better of her, the Nightsister returned to the thick-piled furs where she had begun her trial. Not to project her spirit to any location, just to think.. In the process she chewed the formerly neat ovals of her fingernails into shredded stubs, but a possible solution did begin to form in her mind.

Erishkigal.

The rancor was not just a mount to carry her to and fro, nor was she a pet. Erishkigal was a reliable friend and she could be counted on in this instance. As she had been trained to do since she had first learned to ride on her own, Megaera sent her thoughts directly to the large forest predator. "Erishkigal, alu ragar Tristan pholor l'revis ulu l'Crucible."

It would not be as simple as the rancor happening upon the Prince and scooping him up for a stroll through the wilds of Dathomir. The trial would not be complete unless it was the amulet that brought him here, not Erishkigal. She could provide him with faster transport, but the location was for Tristan to determine.

"Flohlu ukt undva, plynn ukta vel'klar uk shii's ulu alu."

Now all that remained was for Tristan to find a way to communicate his desires to the rancor..

[Tristan Alastor]

With each step, Tristan felt as if his leg might give way beneath him. Just one more step and it would be too many, his ankle would buckle and he would collapse face-first into the mud. His broken body would heavy a sigh of relief, of exhaustion, and he would pass out in the middle of the wilderness. What then?

Then... then he would drag himself onward. He would claw his way through the dirt. That was what the Crucible had made of him. If his people - the Hapans - could see him now, what would they think? Tristan's lips twisted into sour look – the expression becoming a flash of panic moments later as he misplaced a step and his ankle twisted painfully.

Tristan dropped to one knee with a hiss of breath and a wet slap of his calf smacking into the earth. He swore in his native Hapan, the ordinarily lyrical sound becoming an almost feral snarl.

In the thick of the jungle ahead, another beast stirred. Tristan winced as he watched the canopy tremble, the shaking boughs and leaves the first warning the creatures approach - yet as the predator neared, his eyes narrowed in curiosity. When the creature became visible moments later, his grimace began to turn upwards into a grin.

“Erishkigal,” he said, struggling back to his feet and began to limp towards the rancor. “I'd recognise your.. stench anywhere, my friend.”

The beast snorted at him and took a lumbering step backwards as he limped towards her. She might not have understood his words, but she understood the meaning well enough and appeared to be of a mind to make him suffer – like just about every other female in his life.

The rancor watched him, let him come closer, though she did not move. Did not lower herself lower herself so that he might climb onto her back. She stared at him, as though daring him to try to make a mount of her.

Squaring his shoulders and standing straight, in spite of the pain that threatened to split his bones, Tristan looked the rancor in the eye.

“Harl'il'cik,” he commanded in the tongue of the Dathomiri, the weight of the Mists power behind the word, compelling Erishkigal to obey a single demand:

Kneel.

[Megaera]

Returned to pacing on stiff limbs, Megaera waited yet again for the rancor to give her something to go on. Anything. Her thoughts returned to the things she had seen apart from her body.

In the darkness she had been seeking for the amulet, to pull her to Tristan, and it was working.. But there had been other things out there as well. Dangerous things. One in particular disturbed her the most, try as she might she could not discern what it was.. Something that gave off a primitive feeling, full of dark promises.. Her probing thoughts slammed shut on her every time she tried to learn more, pushing fear into her normally steadfast mind.

Others were there with her. Avarice, Magdah and Helebor. Not as the crones that had long visited her, but as young women barely older than her. They kept telling her things, important things that she should remember, and she kept shaking her head clear of their words. Every step she took with them was one further away from her goal. Further from Tristan.

Thoughts from the mind of an irate rancor shook her from the past, and a puff of laughter escaped her lungs at what she was hearing. Not only had Tristan been found, but he had made the rancor obey him and was on his way. True, Erishkigal was a tad on the grouchy side about it, but that was far from relevant. Megaera managed to keep some dignity and hold on to the last shred of patience she had, not asking any further questions. Filled with fresh purpose, she flitted about the empty halls finding food, sure that Tristan had not stopped since walking away from the arena. She could already feel it.

[Tristan Alastor]

There was nothing noble about the sight of Tristan sat atop his mount. His shoulders were hunched, though he struggled to keep his head up, mindful that the beast was apt to claw its way through the forest without any concern for the safety of its rider. One low branch would be enough to swat Tristan to the ground.

He wanted to urge Erishkigal onward, but he had no more words for the beast. Instead it was something more powerful than words that communicated his intentions. Erishkigal grunted and snarled, but she understood. She moved on, faster than before, loping steps shaking the fragile rider on her back. Back and forth he shook, back and forth until - Tristan's vision swam into darkness, the back of the beasts neck the last thing he saw.

Until he began to dream.

He was looking up into Megaera's face. She was speaking to him, but he could not understand her. Darkness washed over his sight then receded as surely as a tide, and she was there again, touching his face. He blinked again, and she was gone.

Gradually, his surroundings began to form from the haze at the edge of his vision. He could see what might have been the walls of a cave... or a tomb.

“Meg,” he managed to say, his voice little more than a rasp.

[Megaera]

While she'd waited for Tristan to find his way to... wherever this place was, Megaera busied herself with getting ready. She had no idea what state he would be in so she planned for the worst. Without a care for who the supplies might belong to she raided the lot. There was not much of a selection, but she had found some food which she had quickly sorted through, and decided she had enough ingredients to prepare a stew, which simmered in a pot over a banked fire. The next thing she did was began tearing through the supplies for anything she might use to patch her prince up with. She tore strips of linen between her hands, rending them with a repetitive fury that echoed through the underground chamber. She located herbs to speed the healing of various injuries from lacerations to burns, and even some antidotes to local poisons. She was exhausted when she was done, but she had a sense that he was near.. though the feeling was disconcertingly weak.

Frowning she made her way to the entrance to the cave. Erishkigal was already there, Tristan slumped over the saddle, obviously delirious. Her trial was over! With a last burst of energy she ran to the kneeling rancor. When she couldn't rouse him, she simply tugged his arm around her and dragged him along. It was a process, but she did not fall, or let him fall. She had no idea where her sudden strength had come from, but she was grateful. She worked tirelessly on him, first examining every inch of him for injury. The worst of which seemed to be beneath the swelling in one leg. Modesty not really being something taught to Nightsisters, she did not hesitate to divest him of every bit of armor and clothing he wore. His pants had to be cut away from his injured leg, which was incredibly swollen and discolored. The bone was out of place, it could potentially cripple him. Megaera did not ask his opinion, she just broke the bone anew, holding him still and pushing with the force of the Mists upon the skewed bone until it cracked back into the proper alignment.. Still alarmingly quiet, he did not move while she bound the leg tightly. Bringing a basin of water to his side, she tenderly cleaned the wounds across his arms, and head. She rolled him onto his side to treat his back, and then when she was done, settled him back onto the same furs that she had begun her trial upon.

While she smoothed the balm of a plant across some of the wounds, he seemed to open his eyes a few times, only to quickly fade back into a stupor. When she had done all she could do for him, Megaera gave in to her own bodies needs and curled on her side next to him. She was not sure how much time had passed before she heard his voice...

"Tristan.." She was no more than a breath away from him, curled on her side with her hand resting atop his. Sitting up, she leaned over him.

"Don't move..", she cautioned, pressing her hand gently to see if his skin burned. It did not. She had managed to see to him before infection could claim him.

[Tristan Alastor]

He didn't move.

It was difficult to say where he hurt. Perhaps pin-pointing where he did not hurt would have been easier. His whole body ached and throbbed and... tingled. He twitched his fingertips and then his toes – a bad idea. With a grimace, he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as fresh hot pain blazed through the haze of his former unconsciousness. Pain, but a shadow of the pain he had felt earlier. Earlier... at the Crucible. Tristan frowned as he looked from Megaera's face to the ceiling above them, risking turning his head ever so slightly to try and see the rest of their surroundings.

“What.. is this place?”

[Megaera]

"I think we're somewhere in the Dreaming River valley.", Megaera said, reaching for a pitcher. She poured a measure of cold water into a small cup.

"This is a cave used for trials, and other rituals. There were others, but they left days ago. We're alone here.", she confirmed.

"You need to drink."

As gently as she could, Megaera sifted her fingers beneath Tristan's head, helping him to lift up enough to drink without choking.

[Tristan Alastor]

Their location didn't matter as much to Tristan as the knowledge that they were alone did. The aches in his body were a reminder of what he had endured in the Crucible; it was a trial that he would not be eager to repeat, nor one that he was in any rush to share. He needed time to rest, to recover away from the eyes of the rest of the clan.

“I did it, didn't I?” he asked, holding back the cough that threatened to swallow his words as Meg drew the cup away from his lips. It hadn't been until the water had touched his lips that he'd realised how thirsty he was.

[Megaera]

The concern knitting her brow eased slightly at his question. Relief softened her eyes as she realized that it was over, both of their trials had been passed and as soon as he was able they could go home. Together.

"Of course..", she smiled down on him. Her hand lifted to his mouth, her thumb carefully wiping at a drop of water caught upon his split lip.

"I always believed you would."

She did not remove her hand from his face, her touch drifted light as butterfly wings across each darkening bruise, as if she could take the pain away with tenderness.

[Tristan Alastor]

However light her touch, Tristan winced at least one as sharp pain needled under his skin. He wanted to be proud. They had called him Nightbrother, named him as one of their own. He was no longer a slave in their eyes. He had proved himself worthy as a warrior, but there was a bitter taste in his mouth that was a result of more than just his split lip. At the height of the conflict in the Crucible, at moments when he had felt himself flagging, he had glimpsed things – visions outside of time. Glimpses of places and people whole star systems away. His wife Razielle, in the arms of a stranger.

“What I saw... that was you, wasn't it?”

He met Megaera's eyes, searching her expression for any sign that she understood him.

[Megaera]

She did not have to ask Tristan what he was referring to, she knew. She'd carried the burden of the wrongs done to him since that night she had consulted the bones. It had made her so furious that she'd knocked the fragile little pieces that she had carried her whole life into nothingness, falling into the muck of the Storm Feather grounds.

"Yes.." When he had been cornered, or seemed to be losing steam, Megaera had revealed just a little bit more to him.

The wife he had so misjudged as his own, in the arms of someone else.

Him in her bed, only to have it revealed that it had never been her - but a blonde Hapan woman.

The child he thought was his... belonging to someone else.

"I showed them to you.. but I did not create them. They were true.", she said quietly, hating the pain and anger they had caused him, yet grateful that it had saved his life.

[Tristan Alastor]

Tristan nodded to himself, slowly. He swallowed, his attention wandering away from Meg for a moment as his sluggish mind tried to piece together some semblance of understanding.

“How long have you known?”

In his heart, Tristan had known from the beginning that Razielle did not care for him. She had been an accommodating host, but expecting her to fall head over heels for a foreign prince who had been foisted on her by his manipulative mother? Before Meg could answer, Tristan shook his head weakly.

“I shouldn't be surprised. Onderon was a sham from the beginning.”

[Megaera]

"Since the night we went to the Storm Feather grounds.." A small frown marred her features. She should have told him then, but it had been her gamble to reveal the things she'd seen when they could be of the most benefit to Tristan. And that had been when he had been engaged in the combative trials of the Crucible.

"I'm sorry.", she said, meaning it and yet... not meaning it. She was sorry for the shameful way her prince had been treated by those who should have valued him most. Their intrigues and subterfuge had figured in to his arrival on Dathomir though and that she could not regret, fully believing he was meant to be here. Right now, in this cave, with her.

"You are a Nightbrother now. You will grow stronger. Later, if you still wish it, we will deliver your retribution to those who have wronged you."

[Tristan Alastor]

“Mm,” was all he managed at first.

Retribution, he thought. The word implied furious vengeance, but when he thought of Razielle – was that he desired? Had it been her intention to make a cuckold of him, or was someone else the architect behind the deception? Perhaps it was the lingering fatigue of his trials, but Tristan could not be certain, not of that at least. There was one thing he did know, however: he had to help his sister. Whatever had become of her, he could not let Razielle and her bastard child cast Elaine aside.

He sighed as he met Meg's eyes.

“What is.. the duty of a Nightbrother? What does the clan.. expect of me now?”

[Megaera]

Nightbrothers existed to only serve the Nightsisters.

That was the answer any other witch in her right mind would have imprinted upon someone returned from the Selection so that there would be no confusion on that point. Tristan would not be welcomed back to the fold of the Burning Mist with any fanfare or celebration. They would not clap him on the back and tell him 'Well done..'. He would simply no longer be their slave. Rather than enforced servitude, now he could look forward to the willing variety. Her brow wrinkled as she pondered how best to deliver this truth to him..

"You will be a member of the clan now.", she tried a slight smile. Everyone in the clan worked, contributed to the overall structure of their small society. Each part equal in importance to the others. They only thing not tolerated was idleness.

"You will be expected to find where best you fit in. You have already proven you can learn to hunt as we do, and that you have kinship with beasts, after a fashion..." She had to grudgingly admit it, the rancor did not like the Hapan prince. Not at first anyway. "Since you have faced the Selection, you could be trained as a warrior."

"Or perhaps the Mists will have you." Megaera thought about that. Their clan had none at present, but she had heard of others that did have a Nightsister, and Nightbrother Shaman pair.

[Tristan Alastor]

As a son of nobility, especially in a society dominated by women, there had been no part of Tristan's upbringing that had been up to him to decide or find out. His duty was to his family, to protecting them and the throne that his mother sat on, and that one day his sister would sit on. That was what was expected of the Hapan Prince, nothing more, nothing less. He would want for nothing, living a life of comfort, but he would never truly be respected for what he accomplished, or have the chance to make choices of his own.

The aches and pains that he felt were a reminder that he had, at last, taken his fate into his own hands. He had not emerged from the Selection a victor because he was Tristan Alastor, Crown Prince of the Hapan Consortium. It was because he had proved his worth – but more than that, because Meg had helped him to become more than he'd ever imagined he could be.

Hunter, warrior, walker in the Mists. Couldn't he be all of them, he wondered as he reached for another cup of water.

“Where do you see me?”

[Megaera]

Shifting her postition, Megaera helped Tristan lift his shoulders enough to drink, scooting behind him so that he could lean against her. She reasoned that she had to be more comfortable than the cold stone floor.


Where did she see him? Until recently she would have said Tristan was the most happy when he was off on the trail of some poor creature he was stalking. But that had been before he had become aware that he could wield magic as well as weapons. They had not had much time together between then and now..but she would bet he was not satisfied with what he had learned. He would want more. She understood that, she too was always seeking to acquire new skills. She would share whatever knowledge he wanted, Burning Mists tradition be damned. Things changed.


She reached across him for the cup to refill it. "You would excel at whichever you chose, but I do not think you should be limited by one choice. You should learn whatever you like."

[Tristan Alastor]

With some help, Tristan managed to lift himself up enough to settle back against Megaera, his head in her lap. Whatever the clan expected of him, Tristan would learn whatever Meg deigned to teach him. All of it would make him stronger. When the day came for him to leave Dathomir, he would be prepared for whatever the Galaxy could throw at him.

“I will learn all of it then,” he said, tilting his head back a fraction to look up at Meg with a small smile. “Though.. I must admit.. the power of the Mists intrigues me most of all.”