Second Coming

[annarti.livejournal.com]

AUTHOR Annarti
DISCLAIMER All mine
NOTES Sequel to See the Sun. It's effectively been rewritten as the prologue to SH:Tarnish, only that one's in first person. And about 7 years more recent.

~ ~ ~

The hot, dry wind of the desert gusted down the gorge of the Ra-Lin, carrying with it thousands of stinging grains of red sand. The sun was directly overhead now, so not even the high walls of the gorge could shade the river from its intense summer fire.

Yan squinted out at the red-walled city that lay before him. Ni-Yana had more than doubled in size since his death. By the ages of the two dead women who he knew were his daughters, he estimated that his reign had come to its abrupt end thirty-five years ago.

He squinted at the palace, partly to glare at the present king who surely resided within its walls, partly to shade his eyes from the white-hot sun above him. Absently he rolled his shoulders back and rubbed at his right index finger. It had been three days since he had awoken from what should have been his endless sleep, but it still felt strange without the silver band around his finger, or the pair of black, leathery wings that had been part of his anatomy for so many years.

Three days, and yet he had felt neither fatigue, hunger nor thirst for the full three days. Again he laid a hand over his heart, and again it greeted him with no response. He lived, but he was no longer alive. Presumably, this second life would not come to an end.

Growling quietly at the back of his throat, he turned from the gorge opening and walked back up the red sandy beach of the Ra-Lin to where Mina and Waké still lay by the water’s edge. The look he gave them was one of indifference. Added to the lives of his parents and his wife, five people had given their lives in order to let Yan continue with his own. Their whole lives had been wasted in the hopeless pursuit of something which should have been impossible.

“Foolish girls,” he muttered, “You could have retaken the throne with the amount of power you possessed, and yet you unthinkingly chose to end your lives so that I might do this instead. Cowards.”

He turned his back on his family and began stalking downstream towards the city. The dusty, off-white peasant clothes his daughters had dressed him in flapped uncomfortably in the hot gusting wind. He wore no footwear and so had to walk in the shallows of the river to avoid burning the soles of his feet. The former monarch grinned ruefully. At least he could still feel.

It was not long before he reached the growing city. Though it was considerably larger than it had been when he had been sitting on the throne, it was still recognisable. Farms lined the banks of the Ra-Lin and the palace, still the same red-stone building it had been during his reign, rose proudly behind the jumble of red mud brick houses that separated it from the river.

The river itself had become somewhat of an activity centre, it seemed. A pair of buildings with long stretches of wooden planks reaching out into the glittering water lay on the riverbank. Moored to the wooden stretches was a number of what Yan could only describe as rafts, though they seemed to be a vast improvement on the rafts he had known thirty-five years ago. Triangles of cloth attached to a vertical pole aimed to catch the wind and take the raft in directions not dictated by the strong flow of the Ra-Lin.

The fallen king glared bitterly at the new generation of rafts—the product of the new king, no doubt.

Finally, he tore his eyes away from the rafts and stepped confidently out of the water and into the city. As he had expected, the streets were deserted. The fierce summer sun prevented anyone from doing anything more strenuous than sleeping.

He smirked as he wandered the streets, glancing through open doors at the residents sleeping within. He chose a house at random and slipped on a pair of sandals. His heels hung over the end, but they would serve their purpose at least until he could find something better.

He made his way through the eerily silent streets of his city until he reached the district that had always been known for its thieves and bandits. At the first house he came to, he smirked as he caught sight of a sword hanging in a scabbard by the door. Evidently, this had not changed. He unlatched the scabbard from its hook on the wall and turned out of the house.

As he made his way to the palace, he drew the sword to examine it. The blade rang when he freed it from its sheath. It was a simple sword, merely a steel blade that had long since lost its sheen. Nicks and dents ran its length, and there were even patches of rust staining the cool silver metal, particularly around the hilt.

Yan shook his head and slipped the blade back into its sheath before strapping it to his waist. He would most certainly have to find something more suitable later on, but for now, it would suffice.

His face was set with grim determination as he marched through the palace. He grinned darkly when he reached the top of the stairs and glanced down the corridor. Evidently, Qewir had made the same mistake Yan himself had made. Nobody guarded the doors to his bedroom.

Slowly, he redrew the blade, his black grin broadening as its rusty surface grated against the inside of the scabbard. His fingers absently ran along the scar over his face that Qewir had planted there thirty-five years ago. Three and a half decades and it still stung him.

Yan paced down the short hallway to the master bedroom, his sandals flapping on the red stone floor. Without hesitation, he kicked open the double-doors at the end of the corridor and strode into the room.

He froze as he entered the room and glared hard at the bed. The rage that had been boiling inside him for three days surfaced and flashed black in his already dark eyes.

The bed was completely empty. A layer of red dust covered everything in the room, making it clear that nobody had entered it for several years.

He walked to the side of the bed with dangerous calm, turned the sword in his grip and thrust it into the slats of pine that once held the feather-filled mattress of his bed. The sword’s leather-bound hilt bounced back and forward on the springy blade.

The same dangerous calm led him out of the room and back down the corridor until he reached the throne room at the opposite end.

The fallen monarch walked to the edge of his balcony and gripped the stone railing so hard his knuckles turned white. His black gaze surveyed the sleeping city that still bore his name.

“You shall be mine once more, Ni-Yana.”

The wide arch of the Ra-Lin ran as ever around the red, mud brick houses. Concealed somewhere in its depths lay Yan’s silver ring, and more specifically, the stone embedded into it. No amount of searching would be able to uncover it now, not after having been buried in the silty riverbed for three and a half decades. It may have even been swept far out to sea by now.

He stood for long hours at the balcony, waiting with strained patience for the city to reawaken from its midday siesta. Qewir had evidently moved Yraekin’s capital, and so long as Yan approached a resident who was young enough that they wouldn’t recognise him, he would easily gain directions to the kingdom’s new capital.

Late into the afternoon, a hint of movement finally caught Yan’s eye. A group of men were preparing their improved rafts to sail out onto the river.

It was all Yan could do to prevent himself from throwing himself over the rail to glide down to the riverbank, as he would have done in times gone by. Instead, he swore again at Qewir and walked back out of his palace towards the rafts’ docking area.

More men were pushing their improved rafts into the water when he arrived. He approached one group, consisting of men no more than thirty years old. They would have no chance of recognising him.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Might I be so bold as to ask directions to Ni-Qewira?”

One man looked up and gave Yan a strange look, as though he had just asked him where the river was. Then he shrugged and gestured vaguely downstream. “It lies about three days’ downstream, near the coast.”

“Thank you, good sir.”

The man grunted and surveyed Yan up and down, taking in his ragged clothes, flimsy shoes and soft, unworked hands. “And before you ask, no, I’m not willing to take you there myself. Get someone else to lend you their boat.”

“It was not my expectation that you would.” Yan couldn’t help but talk down to the sailor. He’d never held peasants in high regard, and he was hardly going to change his tone now, particularly to a man such as this.

He watched as two men hoisted the rolled-up sail. The triangular, red and white-banded piece of fabric caught the wind and was whisked out into the middle of the river, where they swung it around and in turn veered the boat upstream. Yan stared in disgust at the boat, chopping its way easily through the rippling waves in the middle of the river and away against the Ra-Lin’s flow. Such a simple invention should have been part of his reign, not Qewir’s.

Finally, he turned from the dock, not trusting himself to be civil with these peasants for long enough to coax them to take him to Ni-Qewira, let alone for three days on such a small boat.

Instead, he wandered through the streets of Ni-Yana until he found a stable. The building was fairly large, but still kept simple. Musty, animalistic smells wafted out from the bottom floor. A dozen camels were kept in a fenced off area behind the building, and for the time at least, they appeared unguarded.

Yan swung himself over the fence and began inspecting the camels.

“Are you interested in trading, sir?” Yan sighed resolutely at the sound of the old man’s voice. There was no doubt that this man would recognise him. Yan had made a conscious effort of letting all of Ni-Yana know his face during the time of his reign.

“Yes,” he replied, turning to meet the man, but his back was turned as he poured water into a trough at the back of the house. “In a manner of speaking, I am.”

“Excellent!” the old man said, not looking up from the water trough. “What would you be willing to trade for one of these magnificent beasts?”

“I do not carry much, but I do have a sword.” He drew the rusty sword, its sharp, metallic ring echoing through the stable.

“Wonderful! Well, let’s have a look at it, shall we?”

Yan laughed quietly, pacing over to where the stable hand was now emptying a bag of feed into a second trough. “I regret to inform you, good sir, that you have misunderstood my words.” His voice held a deliberately ominous tone now. “I have a sword.”

The old man finally turned to face him. The faint hint of fear that must have been in his eyes at Yan’s last words turned to terror when they fell on his former king.

Yan smirked and twisted the sword suggestively in his grip. “I must say, it is nice to know that even this long after my passing, my face has not yet ceased to instil fear into the minds of my subjects.”

The old man gulped. “With good reason, Majesty.”

Yan held up the blade and examined it critically, frowning again at the rust near the sword’s hilt. “Indeed.” He looked past the blade at the trembling man before him. “Then why is it, may I ask, that you still stand before me?”

The man’s eyes opened wider in terror and confusion. It was plain that, from the way his eyes darted from Yan’s face to the sword, that he did not know what to fear most: the fact that somehow, the kingdom’s first monarch had been brought back from death, or the blade that he held in his hand.

“Please don’t kill me,” he mumbled, “I’m not ready to die.”

Yan smirked again. “I am afraid that this is not your decision to make.” Without waiting for the man to answer or even to consider his words, Yan flicked the blade around to slice its blunt edge through his throat.

The man gasped, made a vague attempt at a cough, then collapsed to the dusty red sand at his feet. A pool of blood stained the sand even redder.

With the casual air of a man who had done this procedure many times before, Yan bent and wiped the blade on the stable hand’s clothes, then slid it back into its sheath before returning to his examination of the camels.

A good many days had passed before Yan saw civilisation. The journey would have been considerably quicker had he abandoned the camel when it had grown sleepy and just continued on his own, but he figured that the camel would be good to trade for a better sword than the one he had acquired in Ni-Yana. He was able to make the trade in this town.

His new sword was a simple one, being nothing more than a shining steel blade attached to a simple, rounded bronze guard and black, leather-bound hilt. The weapon was simple enough, but the expertly made blade was testimony that it would serve him well.

He was even able to trade the rusted sword and flimsy sandals for a pair that were large enough to fit his feet, before he set off again for Ni-Qewira.

Now, unimpeded by a creature that needed sleep and food, Yan made faster pace along the Ra-Lin, though enough days separated the town from Qewir’s city that he lost count of them. He had no problems distinguishing the new capital from the other towns and villages he passed through on his way there. For one thing, the spread of its houses and farms stretched out as far as Ni-Yana had thirty-five years ago, but more importantly, the imposing form of Qewir’s palace rose from the centre of the city. The bright orange light of the desert’s dawn sun shone brightly on the red stone of its walls.

Yan grinned darkly as he approached the palace of his killer. Qewir had been his most trusted advisor, and the closest Yan had ever come to having a friend, but he had betrayed him when he broke into his room that night, sword in hand…

The fallen king stared reproachfully at the high walls surrounding the palace. The central building must have been at least twice the size of Yan’s own. Yan narrowed his eyes in disgust. Qewir had always been somewhat ostentatious.

Two men guarded the front gate from the wall. Each had a bow slung over his shoulder.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Yan called up to the men, just barely concealing the malice from his voice. “Might I gain an audience with his Majesty?”

The two men exchanged glances, then turned back to the scar-faced man on the ground below them.

“What business do you have with King Qewir?” The man’s high-pitched voice was heavy with suspicion.

“I speak with the king on personal terms,” Yan answered, “I have come to inform him of what I fear may be an attempt on his life.”

He grinned again when the men scrambled to open the heavy acacia doors that gained him access to the palace grounds. The two guards led Yan across the courtyard and up a few flights of stairs before they showed him into the king’s study.

Qewir was bent over an array of parchments scattered on the table in front of him. A cloak died a faded blue hung over the back of his chair. “Who has come to disturb me when I specifically asked not to be disturbed?” he demanded, scribbling a note onto one of the pieces of parchment.

One of Yan’s escorts coughed apologetically. “Your Majesty, this man says he knows you personally. He has come to inform you of an attempt on your life”

Qewir still didn’t look up. “I don’t suppose you thought to ask this man’s name, did you Nyra?”

Nyra coughed again, but Yan chose to answer for him. “I’m sure if his Majesty would care to distract himself from his papers, he would find the man’s identity from his own eyes.”

Qewir had stiffened visibly from the first word that had escaped Yan’s lips. Finally he lifted his eyes to fix them on those of the man he had killed thirty-five years ago. His mouth gaped open with words that refused to be spoken.

Yan raised his eyebrows. “I believe the word you’re searching is ‘impossible’,” he supplied.

The slightest hint of a nod touched Qewir’s frozen body.

Yan sighed and brought his fist up to casually examine his fingernails. “For the sake of simplicity, let’s both of us agree that it is possible, and that I do, in actual fact, stand before you.” He frowned critically. “You’ve aged terribly, Qewir.”

There was that faint nod again, but no hint of comprehension could be detected in Qewir’s eyes.

Nyra finally spoke up, the fear of his king faintly reflected in his voice. “Are you all right, your Majesty? Who is this man?”

The only movement from Qewir was a quick flick of his eyes from Yan’s face to Nyra’s, then back again to Yan.

“Speak, your Majesty,” Yan sneered, “Inform your guards of my identity. Prove to them that your tongue still functions.”

Qewir blinked a few times and shook his head slowly before finally rising to his feet. He walked around the desk and stood a few paces from Yan. He was not a tall man, and it was easy for the former king to peer down his nose at him.

He cleared his throat a few times, and when he finally spoke, his voice was but a shadow of what it had been. “I killed you,” he said simply, “thirty-five years ago.”

Yan raised an amused eyebrow when he heard the guards step back and unsling their bows.

“Indeed you did,” Yan confirmed, then turned his head slightly so he addressed the guards but still had his eyes on Qewir. “Tell me, gentlemen, would you care to test your skills against a man who died three and a half decades ago, and yet still walks the earth?”

He could almost hear their minds working as the realisation dawned in the guards’ faces. Simultaneously, they bolted from the room, leaving their king alone with the tyrant.

Yan turned his head back to fully face Qewir. “Those are a pair smart men you have trained there. Does their king have the same sense?”

Qewir’s face firmed in determination. “If you would kill me, Yan, at least give me the same grace I gave you and spare me physical pain.”

Yan drew his sword, an amused expression on his face. “Even if you sleep, Aeia still gives much pain before she takes one’s life from one’s hands and holds it in her own. But you may take some comfort in the knowledge that I have not yet decided to take your life.”

Qewir frowned in confusion, but said nothing.

“Where is it?” Yan demanded calmly.

Qewir’s frown deepened. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

Yan sighed and spoke as though he was explaining something to a small child. “My ring, Qewir.”

Qewir shook his head. “I threw it into the river with your body. All of Ni-Yana saw its fate.”

“I know you, Qewir; you did not discard it when you killed me. You threw a different silver ring into the river, and hid mine instead.” He twisted the sword in his grip, knowing from years of experience what affect this simple gesture had on the minds of his victims.

As expected, Qewir glanced nervously at the blade, but fixed his eyes back on Yan’s. “I know you too,” he said carefully. “Even if I told you where the yrae stone now lies, you would nonetheless have my life.”

Yan lifted the point of his sword and tested its edge on one finger, feigned surprise registering on his face when no blood seeped from the cut. “That is true, Qewir, but if I held the stone instead of my blade, I might grant you a less painful death. All those who died by magic did so with a smile on their face.”

Qewir’s anxiety showed plainly on his face as he considered his options, then he tried one last, desperate defence. “Raykin would never retake you for their king.”

“Raykin is it now?” Yan scoffed. “I don’t expect they would, but for the time being, this is not my intention.” He sighed and decided to take a more aggressive stand, much as he disliked doing so. It seemed flamboyant, somehow.

Nevertheless, he flicked the sword around and pressed it against Qewir’s throat, holding the aging king against his desk with his full weight. He drew his face up close to the crease-lined face of Raykin’s king, and so that his narrowed, dead eyes stared hard into Qewir’s. “I have an eternity to search for it,” he hissed. He hated doing it this way. It was so undistinguished. “And I can assure you that even though you won’t live through it, I can torture the lives of this kingdom in your name if you do not concede. I will ask you once more, Qewir, where is it?”

Qewir gulped, causing the blade to cut into his flesh just enough so the blood began to flow. His eyes glanced nervously towards the far corner of the room. “Under the third stone from the left, over in that corner.”

Yan grinned darkly and stood back, gesturing to the corner with his sword.

Qewir obediently went to the corner, rubbing at his throat and breathing hoarsely. He stooped to the stone and lifted it, then reached out a hand to pick up the ring that lay underneath it.

“No Qewir,” Yan told him, “I don’t think I can allow you to do that.” He pushed the king back from the ring with the flat of his blade, then looked down on it himself, the same dark grin on his lips.

The engraved silver band was dusty and scratched after having lain under the stone for decades, but the sparkling blue jewel that was embedded into it shone with the same inner light as it had done when Yan had first seen it attached to the yrae’s tail.

He sighed, remembering the feel of the wind under his wings as he took to the air, then bent to slip the familiar silver band back over his index finger. Even as it slid over his skin, the strange feeling of a thousand insects crawling under his skin returned to his shoulder blades.

When he stood again, Qewir was, perhaps subconsciously, backing away from the fallen monarch. His thoughts were clearly visible on his face: What have I done?

Yan smirked and stood again, then held his ringed hand out, palm facing Qewir. “I am eternally grateful, your Majesty,” he mocked, then sent out a spark of invisible fire that shone blue only through Yan’s eyes. The spark flew to Qewir’s chest where it wrapped around his heart and stopped it from beating.

Qewir gasped once, then slumped to the ground. A faint smile touched his lips.

Yan nodded satisfactorily and sheathed his sword. He walked to the window behind Qewir’s desk, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably as the strange feeling in them increased. He frowned as a sudden thought came to mind, then grabbed the blue cloak from the back of Qewir’s desk.

Finally, he dove from the window, quickly stripping off the peasant’s shirt as he fell from the third-storey study. He caught himself easily on the massive, black wings that shot out from his back, and revelled in the fantastic freedom he gained from flight.

A smile spread across his lips, a genuine one this time. No matter how many thousands of years his second coming would extend for, he would never tire of the freedom of flight.