The Chaff [One-shot]
Jul 1, 2019 10:09:55 GMT -5
Post by ELIRA on Jul 1, 2019 10:09:55 GMT -5
Year 3009 of the Third Age
She had been bound in chains for years now, and the land was in upheaval, as each Wainrider Chieftain came to stake his claim at the palace of Nalaikh. One after the next would come, having slain his enemies at the gate, and the people grew in fear of the turmoil caused.
Each Chieftain became as one of the peacocks which were kept in the low courtyards; strutting, and stalking, and fanning the long and marvelous feathers of his tail. And each Chieftain lacked humility, and let down his guard.
All of them came to her; seeking word of the stars, and word of the stars she would give them. Words which were cunningly crafted to make one man seem more important than the next, and the Od Üzmerch, or the Kelet, as she had become known to the people, persisted.
Each one had thought himself greater than the last, and Kelet had found their advances to be similar. Some treated her with more respect than others, and heard her word though others… others had ended their lives in the same manner as Bakaar, the first Zakhiral to be crossed by the very chains she was set within. He was not alone in thinking that an immortal heir would be his.
Kelet found their minds shallow; and their thoughts easily clouded. When it came clear that they feared not her threats; when they touched her and saw they they did not burn to brittle ash as she pronounced they would, her game, would shift to cunning and enticement, until their weapons were out of reach and she was the one left standing with metal at her disposal.
It had been sixty three passes of the sun since the Zakhiral Bakaar had first set her in chains, and in those years the very chains at her wrist had squeezed the breath of a dozen Zakhirals, and another dozen of their sons and counselors. Always was her torch ready to hide their marks of destruction, and few dared to test the fates of her firey hands.
They called her cursed, and they kept her chained, yet also they feared and respected the Kelet who dwelled now completely in the open air observatory. Through summer sun beating and winter's chill in the high desert did she live beneath the elements. Her torches were kept burning by her insistence that the fires were needed to fuel her, though it was rare that she was provided food and water; and year by year she felt her body grow weaker. The Easterlings marveled at her endurance.
Until a night came when she sat alone in the observatory, the stars singing above her as she stared out the western watch at the rolling sands and the cloudless sky. The city had gone to sleep, and was quieter than usual. The door opened with a creak, and no voice was spoken. She expected it was Altansarnai, who was the great granddaughter of the one she had once called Tsetseg.
“Altansarnai,” she began, her voice low. “Why call you on me now? The city is at rest.” She did not wish to be bothered; did not wish to be questioned, for she had been walking in her dreams beneath a forested canopy.
It was not a woman's voice who answered her though; but an ageless voice of man.
“Ti më quan një trëndafil. A nuk po shihni se unë jam një plak?” There was an amusement to the deep, gravelly voice. You call me a rose. Do you not see I am an old man?
Kelet's eyes widened, and she turned swiftly in her startle, not holding to her normal grace and composure. She trembled and clutched the window behind her, the chain linking her wrists pulling taught at her waist. There was a man standing in the open doorway. An old man; with a beard near reaching his blue robed belt. His hair was white; and his eyes were of a blueish violet; far different from the dark eyes of the Easterlings, and he was tall. Taller than any Kelet had seen, and taller than herself, though often she towered above the stocky Wainriders. At his side he held a black staff.
“Më poshtë ata thanë se një kalorës i fuqishëm i madh jeton në këtë kullë. Unë mendoj se ju keni bërë mirë duke i ngatërruar ato.” Below they said that a great necromancer lives in this tower. I think you have done well in confusing them. The old man's eyes seemed bright. Brighter than any eyes should be.
Kelet frowned, and demanded, “Speak the common words.”
“You have been here long to forget your own language,” the blue garbed man said next, switching to the common tongue of the Easterlings.
“Of what language do you speak? Who are you?” Kelet demanded, straightening, and willing away the fear from her blood. She balled her shaking hands into fist. “Where is Temujin?” she whispered, looking beyond the open doorway for the doorwarden. The door was never left ajar; only opening for those to enter and exist; and in those times did the doorwarden stand guard in watch. Temujin, was he.
“I am Pallando the blue,” the old man answered simply. “Temujin has been…” The man thought for a moment, twisting his moustache in his fingertips. “Relieved of his service.”
“Who is Pallando the blue?” Kelet repeated, her eyes like blue fire. “Stay back from me.” She raised a hand in warning.
“There is not time. The bells of the city will soon ring and announce the fall of the Zakhiral. You must go. I've unlocked this tower, and I can offer you no further assistance than this,” he motioned to the open door. “I have business beyond,” the old man took a step backward toward the doorway.
It was then running footsteps resounded in the hall, an upward spiral. “It is Ulagan,” Kelet whispered. The son of the Zakhiral. She knew his footsteps. She had heard him running through the palace; through the courtyard.
“They say in the city that the oracle has starfire in her fingertips,” the old man answered her, though her face was frozen in fear, and fear stilled her from answering.
Pallando receded into the shadows of the room, and the shadows seemed to deepen, until all moonlight had faded and they were cast into darkness.
Kelet stared at him wide eyed; for even in darkness her eyes were keen, and Pallando winked at her before Ulagan burst through the open door.
The Easterling's face was contorted in rage and anguish. “You've killed them all. You're a curse! A demon!” Ulagan's face was drenched in sweat and his eyes crazed, and he barreled into Kelet blindly in the still darkening room, as her hands flew out to stop him. She grasped at his shadowed face. She could feel his skin; feel the coarseness of his black beard.
Ulagan screamed, as his flesh began to sear under her touch, and Kelet screamed in tandem as she saw light and radiance licking between her fingers. She felt a tingling. A warm sensation, as the room was lit by the light of her own hands, and she saw the skin of the Easterling begin to melt away from his face, cauterizing bloodflow as sinews were were seared, as the white bone of his skull shone through. The cries of Ulagan were ended as his face fell away like chaff, though Kelet's persisted, the sound dropping now from her lips as a whimper, as the son of the Zakhiral dropped to the floor at her feet. Her whole body shook; the chains on her arms rattling along with her, and there were ashes atop her bare feet.
As the moonlight began to return to the room, Kelet could see the indigo eyed man hunched over his black staff, looking older than he had moments before. He seemed to be regaining his energy, and he shook his head, grumbling.
“Go,” Kelet told him, her eyes flaring.
“Go? I go?” Pallando asked, somewhat breathless.
“Go, or I will… I will burn you as well. I have killed many men, and an old man would be a fool to approach me. You are too old for an heir.” The warning was sincere, and though Kelet's hands still trembled, the chain between her wrists was pulled taught. Before it had been a falsity. A lie meant to deceive. Kelet wielded no power but her mind, but this time, something had changed. The old man had played his role, of what it was she could not discern, save that he was a sorcerer.
Pallando seemed to chuckle, and mutter under his breath. “I seek no heir. You sound more of the Noldor than the Avari.”
The words meant nothing to Kelet, and she took a step forward, as gong began to sound from one of the city towers below.
“I have business elsewhere to the East, yet the men feared to enter this tower, and I can see why. I can assist you no further, but the gates are open, and the guards are…” Pallando hummed under his breath. “Indisposed.”
Pallando straightened, and another figure in the door caused Kelet to gasp for she had not heard him. As tall as Pallando, though smooth of chin and dark hair falling around his face. Light eyes stared back at her own, and she clenched her fists, ready for the next attack upon her.
“Liridon,” the old man muttered. “Ne duhet të shkojmë në murin lindor. Erblini ka devetë.” We must go to the eastern wall. Erblin has the camels.
Liridon glanced to Pallando, though his eyes swiftly turned back to Kelet as he spoke of her. “A është ajo një magjistar, siç thonë ata?” Is she a necromancer as they say?
The two continued in a language that Kelet could not understand, and she watched, shifting upon her feet; the chains rattling.
“No. She is of your kin. An Avari captive I believe,” Pallando told him.
“She too is an elf?” Liridon asked, his voice wavering in haste, for his own kind were scattered in these lands, though tribes like the one he had come from dwelled on Sunrise Coast. His eyes flashed back to the white clad woman. “You are an elf?”
“She does not understand the language,” Pallando answered, moving towards the door.
“She is chained. Are we taking her? I am taking her. She should not be left.” Liridon took a few steps into the room toward Kelet, and her hands raised again in protest and in threat as she looked between the white beard and the dark haired man, eyeing both the sword and staff they bore. Her palms now dripped of blood from her fingernails digging into the tightness of her clenched fists.
“She has seen enough of the East. Her call is to the West,” Pallando said knowingly.
Gongs began to chime out from the hills to wake the rest of the city. Though the guard had been near demolished, and the nobles of the household, including the Zakhiral, poisoned, there were still many common men at arms, and Pallando started down the long stairwell, casting a shadow of darkness before him with his staff as he went.
“Come,” the wizard called to Kelet, again speaking in her language. Liridon had a pained look upon his face, though soon turned to follow, for he could not abandon his missive at the East gate. This was only one of a string of cities they must reach before they were found out, and Kelet stood motionless.
The gongs resounded again throughout the city, and voices began to be heard upon the streets; calling of death; of poisoning in the Zakhiral's palace. Kelet stepped around the body of Ulagan, the chain links at her feet draging over his hand, and she shuddered, glancing out the western window into the starry sky.
She began for the spiral stairs. For the first time in a thousand years or more, Kelet descended from the tower, and before daybreak she had left from the western gate; seeing the bodies of the dead guards leaning against the great doors. Kelet turned not again to see Nalaikh as she began due west across the desert lands; her feet touching sand for the first time in living memory.