Equilibrium

The Aftermath

Larke, 1182

I woke up that morning with the sun; it shone in through my slit of a window and fell directly onto my face. For some reason, I wasn't bothered like I normally would've been. Instead, I felt encouraged. I took the opportunity of extra time before breakfast to engage in a soothing yet awakening yoga session, stretching taut muscles, the rhythms of motion breathing peace into my limbs.

Refreshed, I drew my bath that sat in the corner of my room and soaked for a while, taking the time to ignore my responsibilities. Lazily, I soaped my body and rinsed it, repeating the process twice. The soap felt luxurious, the lavender seeds in the soap adding exfoliation, buffing my skin.

I scrubbed methodically and absentmindedly, taking my time. I had to occupy myself, because if I let myself alone with my thoughts, then I would have to consider what had happened last night. I'd gained some insight on the Naga gang; I had met a few members, learned their names, and even recognized some influential members of society. Mostly, it was a few noblemen and merchants, but that was enough to be concerned by. The King knew that he did not hold favor with everyone, as no King would, but I doubted he knew this many of his ruling class were openly allied with the Naga gang and by extension, the rebellion. The Raven herself, the leader of the Naga gang, attended the party last night, although I never saw her does anything of interest to me. What I did see, she was left alone. This was perplexing, as I expected people to try and schmooze her, taking advantage of the casual atmosphere of the party. It's the sort of thing I always saw at the palace with the King, and I realized I'd expected the same to apply here, as well. But The Raven kept a wide circle of her personal space, which I hadn't anticipated for someone of her status.

I'd been rubbing soap against my dry arm while deep in thought, leaving filmy residue on my skin. I splashed some water onto it, watching the bubbles float off into the bath. I was beginning to uncover the clues to her identity, and I knew I was just brushing the surface of who she was. The King had requested I discover who this leader was, his faceless enemy. How useful her identity would actually be to him, I wasn't entirely sure, but I knew it was unnerving to him that he didn't even know the truth of most of the 'facts' about her.

The rumors about The Raven were numerous, and as I now knew, mostly false. First of all, most assumed the leader of the Naga was a man, which she clearly was not. There were other rumors about her being a demon, able to steal your soul with a single look. I laughed; there were no such thing as demons. I wondered if she even was a mage. Usually, when in close proximity to another magic source, like a mage, I could at least feel the presence. I felt Dean's power, but I hadn't felt anything from her. It's entirely possible she had no powers at all, and instead ascended to her rank through pure cunning and skin. Though magic was a sharp edge, not being a mage would mean she's a brilliant tactician, and therefore even more dangerous.

Obviously, I had to collect as much information about everything as I possibly could. I could not fail – I recalled the King's orders. It was unspoken, but I knew as well as any that a failed request given from the King meant death. I shivered in my now lukewarm bath, remembering all of the executions I'd witnessed before. The King had a flair for the dramatic, and always tended to go for very public, very bloody executions. As his highest ranking Suryan Mage, sometimes I'd been part in the torture beforehand.

I remember vividly the last time I'd assisted in an execution. The woman who had been on trial was a war criminal; a foreign spy from Dobridland. She had been here, acting as a palace maid, spying on the King and sending letters to her home country. Of course, she'd been caught; the Suryan Mages have an entire branch devoted to intelligence, both domestic and foreign. Nothing would've slipped by us, and especially not directly under our noses. She was thrown in the dungeons after we intercepted her first letter.

When the time came for the King to execute her, he and the Queen decided to make it a public execution. They wanted to make an example of the woman spy – and so they did. Even now, though that was a full year ago, I can see the woman, hands bound, ankles hobbled. I remember how the rope had rubbed her wrists raw, red and blistered; I remember seeing the blood drip down her fingers. She had stood on the platform, proud and tall, when the guards propped her up there. The deep orange light from the setting sun flashed in her flaxen hair, and I remember being so entranced with it. It looked as if her hair were made of fire, lit by the sunset. The King read his decree, something full of frivolous delicate words for something so gruesome; I didn't remember what he said. I do, however, remember seeing how her fingers shook, despite her proud stance, the sound of her blood dripping onto the floorboards below her. It took courage to stand there, and I admired her for that.

The tradition for such a crime against the crown is to cut the person until they either begged for mercy, or, bled to death. One of my lieutenants, an older man, was usually the one with this task. He started at her sides, slicing through her dirty shift. I remember the sound the cloth made as the knife tore through it roughly. The blood flowered underneath the grubby wool, staining the fabric. She didn't move a muscle. My lieutenant kept going, making long, slow swipes of the blade, separating the skin strategically. Just enough to bleed, to satisfy the King, but not enough to bleed her out too fast. For the first couple cuts, the woman was brave.

Still shaking, she made no sounds, allowing them to cut her. A few more, and she began to whimper, her stance wavering. More, and each one she let out a cry. At each cry, the crowd shouted for more, thirsty for her blood. I don't believe it was the pain that got to her; otherwise, she would've cried out at the first cut. I think this method of public cutting, of having an entire throng of angry citizens watching you slowly die, knowing that you were slowly dying, was excruciating. The knowledge was the pain, the humiliation.

My lieutenant raised the knife once more. This time, it appeared he was intending to make one of his previous cuts deeper. The smallest of whispers fell from her lips, pleading for mercy. The King and I exchanged looks; I knew what he wanted me to do. The King loved my vibrant power in its deadliness. My magic is pure, burning energy when released. When I loose it, all that is seen is blinding light, then a tragically small pile of ash, all that is left of my victim.

My thoughts had started to drift while I was gathering concentration; my focus diverted from the impending execution at my hand by my rampant emotions. My shame, self-hatred, and guilt, all manifested when I loosed my power, and I burned myself instead.

I lifted a very clean arm from the water, turning it to examine it, the sunlight flickering in from my small window and coming to rest on the healed scar tissue. The bump elicited the tiniest shadow.
I had fallen to the ground, clasping my arm, as I had tasted some of my own torture. It burned, like I had pressed a red hot poker to my bare skin and held it there. After noticing I had damaged myself, the King decreed that I would no longer take part in these executions. At first, I thought he had pity for me, or perhaps that he had noticed my blood-lust. For I hadn't felt shame that I was participating in the execution; I felt shame and guilt for the fact that I wanted to. I wanted to snuff the fire from the woman's hair. I wanted to feel her body disintegrate into thousands of flecks of ash, worth less than sand.

In the end, it turns out the King noticed I had become hurt and had simply not wanted to mar his perfect champion, his highest Suryan Mage Premiere. In any case, using my magic to that extent, ultimately weakens me to exhaustion. I would take a life, and then sleep for days. And that's what happened. I shook my head rapidly, trying to forcefully remove the memory from my mind. I wasn't mercy, I was death. Pure and simple death. My calm, peaceful morning now felt like a prelude to a funeral. The air was still, my bath turned cold, my mood darkened. Only memories would have such a power over me.

I stood in the bath and stared at my scars. The old burn on my arm now looked angry in the early morning light. It disgusted me; I dried myself quickly and dressed myself even faster. I had no time to dwell on the past, I had work to do here.

I made a mental note that Spenser Red would have to be on my list of people of interest. He seemed so confident, he had to know something of use to me. His behavior was peculiar, and he himself was another mystery to unravel. I sat down on my bed, fully dressed. I stared at my hands, deep in thought.

My stomach growled. Rising early made for my hunger making itself known much earlier than it usually did. I would have to wait, though; Dean had the keys to my room, and it was apparently his responsibility to shuttle me around the compound. I wondered if he remembered much of last night. It was definitely a delicate subject – did he remember kissing me or not? The status of this would certainly affect how I should proceed. If he did remember it, did he think it was a mistake? Would he feel guilty that he had kissed me without my explicit consent to? Or, on the opposite end, would he assume more of our relationship? My heart pounded – and then I remembered we had no actual relationship to speak of. As far as Dean and I went, we were only friends, if that. We had only just met each other a few days ago. The thought sobered me, quenching the meager excitement I'd momentarily experienced. No doubt Dean thought I was a fool, if he thought of me at all.

Before I could do anything else, Dean unlocked and opened my door, entering my room.

"Good morning, Larke," he mumbled.

He must be hungover – his eyes were rimmed red, surrounded by dark circles. His hair was mussed, as if he'd just woken up; the thought of him waking up sprung forth a vivid picture of him lying in bed next to me, the sun dancing across his sleeping features – a thought I quickly shook out of my head.

"Morning. You look like you feel rough," I said, trying to dispel the internal tension I had created with my unprompted mental images.

"Hmpf. Yeah," he huffed, sitting on the bed next to me. "Since you're now a member, you can start earning your keep around here." He rubbed his eyes vigorously and made no eye contact with me at all. "You'll be shadowing me, patrolling the streets and checking on the dealers."

The entire existence of the drug, Spate, had completely slipped my mind last night. I had been so preoccupied with the other aspects of my mission that I hadn't even considered where the Naga gang was getting Spate from. Fortunately, it seemed that I would have opportunities to find out.

"Alright, come on. Let's go get breakfast."

We stood, and he led me towards the open door, never quite looking me in the eye. This didn't bode well for our budding friendship. I followed him, unsure of what was going on in his mind. I had to know what he was thinking.

He briskly walked down the hallway, his feet slapping the floor much quicker than mine. Even though my legs were probably just as long, I struggled to keep up. Clearly, he was upset with me – he was practically running. I had to clear the air, or I'd never get anywhere.

"Are you upset with me?" My frustration with his attempted evasion of me caused my words to slip out more forcefully than I intended.

He stopped his relentless pace to look back at me.

"…no, I'm not upset with you," he supplied reluctantly.

He shuffled his feet, evidently uncomfortable. He kept looking up and down the hallway; most likely, he was trying to think of a plausible escape. I wouldn't allow him the luxury.

"Okay…" I said, prompting him to continue.

He still didn't, so I tried a direct question.

"What's your problem this morning? You're obviously upset about something." Angry now, I threw my hands onto my hips in a stance filled with pure attitude and stared deeply into his eyes.

He stared back, alarmed, but said nothing.

"Was it the kiss?" I asked, eyebrows raised, mouth held taut.

"You remember that?" he said, mussing the nape of his neck with his hand, chastened.

"Of course," I said, pointing my fingers at him accusingly, "you were the one who was drinking." I returned my hands to my hips and resumed my stance.

"Right… I'm sorry I did that," he mumbled, his face reddening in embarrassment and shame. "I should not have. It was a mistake."

He ended his sentence firmly, more confident than anything else he'd said all morning, as if convincing himself as well. His words sent my stomach into a twist.

Suddenly and uncharacteristically unsure of myself, I changed the subject. "What work do we have today?"

"I'll show you."