Shattered Exile

ONE Alone-1

ONE

Alone

She had no one. The domain and all of its inhabitants had forsaken her. Exiled to the unforgiving waste of the borderlands, abandoned by her kin, left to fade into nothingness; this was to be her fate – she had personally seen to it. There was no one to blame but herself. Her actions alone had led to her current lot. The allure of scrying both the past and the future had taken hold of her – indeed, she zealously sought its intoxicating caress. Knowledge was power, and the desire for power had consumed her entirely. Ethical considerations had played no part in her quest to know everything. The Freylarkai were wary of her – they feared what she knew. Subterfuge, murder, love, adultery; these acts became as transparent as glass. No Freylarkin could hide their past actions or future intent from her second sight – including Queen Mirielle. Yet her insatiable thirst for the relentless pursuit of knowledge had ultimately led to her ruin. Her actions had not gone unnoticed. In pushing her ability to its extreme, she had inadvertently painted a target on her back, one that was not easily removed.

Wearily, she rolled her head onto its side, allowing her left cheek to press against the cold dirty floor upon which she lay. She stared vacantly at the bronze metal mechanical claw attached to the stump of her left wrist. She subconsciously engaged her second sight, travelling back to that ill-fated cycle just moments prior to the loss of her organic hand. The past imagery now assaulting her mind was absent of any dialogue, though she recalled well the events leading up to her disfigurement, and subsequent exile, at Scrier’s Post.

‘Darlia, your actions can no longer go unpunished. You have repeatedly defied Freylarian law and the will of the ruling council. This cannot be allowed to continue!’

‘What gives you the right, Mirielle, to curtail the development of the Freylarkai when you yourself flaunt your own ability?!’

‘The ability of a shaper does not extinguish free will.’

‘And yet you exiled Krashnar for his works!’

‘They were monstrous constructs.’

‘As were your own failures, Mirielle, need I remind you of that fact?’

‘Enough! I am your queen, and you have defied Freylarian law for the last time, Darlia. As of this point, you are banished from Freylar. You will never again step foot in this domain. The Blades have standing orders to enforce this ruling by any means available to them, including release.’

‘You cannot do this – you have no right! Kirika, surely you do not support this? Stop this unjust madness!’

‘I cannot. The ruling council has already voted on the matter.’ her sister had replied meekly from the front row of the gathered ensemble.

‘Mirielle, if you do this, word of your unwarranted action will spread throughout Freylar, inciting others who seek to explore their abilities.’

‘That will not come to pass. Let what is about to happen here be a reminder to all those who seek to follow your forbidden path, Darlia. Marcus...take her hand!’

‘No! You cannot do this Mirielle! The ruling council’s judgement on this matter is biased. Marcus is your willing lapdog and Aleska has always followed her own agenda.’ she remembered pleading desperately.

She recalled the ominous moment when Marcus purposefully drew his bastard sword from the scabbard at his waist. The Blade Lord strode coldly towards her with an unflinching expression etched across his normally charming face. Despite her dogged stance on the matter, she had failed miserably to convince her kin of their impending atrocity. She tried to end her scrying by disengaging her second sight, desperate not to relive the painful memory, yet her feeble starved physique and dominant subconscious dictated otherwise. She watched again in mute horror as Marcus mercilessly brought the edge of his blade down across her left wrist. Her body immediately went into spasm as her mind replayed the agonising moment when the shock of losing her left hand wracked her body. In her mind’s eye blood spurted from her severed wrist, splattering her disconnected left hand, which fell lifelessly upon the hard bedrock of the courtyard. Her once beautiful slender hand lay as an orphaned bloody mess. The sound of her own screams filled her ears once again, cried out against the backdrop of the stunned observers – including her own sister, who looked on dejectedly in silent horror. She recalled dropping to her knees and instinctively clutching her ruined stump as more blood gushed from the clinical wound. Marcus had already turned his back on her and was walking slowly towards her dazed audience. The Blade Lord flicked his blade abruptly, casting aside the blood that clung to its razor sharp edge. Mirielle also turned her back, prompting her entourage to follow suit, with the exception of Kirika, whose conflicting loyalties caused her to falter momentarily. Her eyes filled with tears, due to the increasingly unbearable pain, and she howled again in agony whilst her body fully acknowledged its traumatic loss. She looked towards Kirika at the fore of the dispersing crowd. Kirika too wept uncontrollably, though she struggled to make out her sister through watery eyes and strands of purple hair clinging to her face.

‘Help me Kirika!’

‘Darlia...’

Mirielle overheard her pitiful plea and strode purposefully towards her sister. She grabbed Kirika by the left arm and promptly escorted her younger sibling away.

‘Kirika, your sister has brought this upon herself. Let us put this ugly business behind us and move forward.’

‘Sister, please, I beg your help!’

She cursed herself for being so conceited, for failing to scry the future for both herself and Mirielle sufficiently, having grown comfortable with her false sense of security.

Having sated its amusement, her second sight suddenly disengaged, releasing its hold over her. The future became the present once more, abandoning her to lie alone upon the filthy floor of the Meldbeast’s pen. Her body began to relax again, and slowly her numbing depression returned with the promise of its comfortable embrace. She turned her head back towards the chamber’s opening above, beyond which Krashnar had permitted his hideous mutated pet its first taste of freedom. The insidious shaper’s monstrous creation had at last been freed from its dingy prison, carrying upon its carapace back her since-departed lover. Driven by the need for vengeance and fuelled by Krashnar’s hollow promises of revenge, Lileah had finally left her side, carried away by the abhorrent Meldbeast along with its twisted creator. She had lost everything; she could no longer return home, had lost the respect of her kin, her sister had been coerced from her side and now her last support structure had been kicked out from underneath her – Lileah had left. Her world was in ruin, and both her physical and mental states were rapidly following suit. For an entire cycle she had lain upon the cold hard dirty floor of the Meldbeast’s pen, her only company being misery, depression and regret. Despite her insatiable desire to further her knowledge, the cost of realising her potential had been too great. The steep price of her unlawful transgressions had not only cost her own soul but had also demanded the souls of others. Many Blade Aspirants had been released during their recent failed invasion of Freylar, at Scrier’s Post, and more souls would travel to the Everlife in the wake of Lileah’s renewed path of bloody vengeance. Though Lileah now bore scars of her own, following their last encounter with The Blades, nonetheless, the impetuous telepath’s disfigurement only fuelled her desire for revenge. The overwhelming need to balance the score sheet guided Lileah steadily towards her inevitable doom. Lileah’s renewed invasion – carefully steered by Krashnar’s own machinations – promised nothing but further pain and misery for all. She tried to scry the outcome of Lileah’s ill-fated plan on several occasions while lying on the floor of the chamber, but the strands of fate were too numerous to examine, given the scale of the telepath’s intent and ultimate lack of presence. Even so, none of her scrying had shown a glimpse of a positive outcome. The result of any war was always the same: everyone suffered. She did not need to scry Lileah’s future to know that the Freylarkai would be devastated by further conflict, so soon after the m******e at Scrier’s Post, even in the event of an unlikely victory. Families would be devastated by the loss of those released in battle, and trauma would become an unwanted bedfellow for the survivors of the inevitable horrors to come. Despite the hypocrisy of her now altered perception, having lost everything – not just her hand – she could not permit the future to play out as was likely written. In spite of her deep-seated personal loathing towards Mirielle, the Freylarkai were still her kin, and the fate of her people could not be tied inexorably to the actions of a single individual. Though she could never fully align herself with Mirielle’s rule – the loss of her hand ensured as much – she now conceded the point that there did indeed need to be a tighter rein on scrying, something she had come to learn through her own experiences. Perhaps the ruling council was right to take her hand, she mused. Maybe Freylar needed her to be that example, to deter others from following the same path to ruin she had regrettably taken. However, public exile was another matter entirely. Her actions had not warranted such severe punishment; banishing one from their home, denying them of their loved ones, friends and family was unforgivable. Mirielle’s efforts to push her away had failed catastrophically. The raw hurt she felt following her exile would never allow her to fade into obscurity. The torrent of distasteful emotions, along with her physical pain, festered during her time in the borderlands, slowly turning to hatred. Mirielle’s ill-conceived judgment had been the catalyst for her changed disposition, which in turn had led her along a dark path of destruction back to Freylar. Although Lileah willingly joined her campaign of bloody vengeance, ultimately she was responsible for those released at Scrier’s Post. And now Lileah was out there, threatening to repeat what was now a part of Freylar’s history.

Thoughts continued to churn in her mind as she remained in her numb state. Her physical health had declined; her lips had begun to crack and she was dehydrated.

She awoke on the second morning of her self-imposed penance to the gentle patter of rain upon her face. The welcome moisture initially stung her dry lips, and the occasional stray droplet caused her tired eyes to flutter. After a short time spent staring up at the wintery sky, the rain intensified, presenting her with a dilemma: remain and get soaked, or...

‘Do something!’ she whispered to herself. ‘You must not allow her to repeat your mistakes.’

Her clothes began to feel damp, and the rain falling through the opening in the cavern became heavier.

‘Get up!’

Impulsively she raised her head slightly off the ground and allowed it to fall, landing with a dull thud. The sudden impact momentarily roused her from her cloddish state, though on its own it was not enough to rid her of her despair. Lifting her head once more, again she allowed it to drop to the filthy floor – this time with an audible thump.

‘Get up, now!’

Still her body refused to obey her mind’s instruction. Again and again she struck the hard floor with the back of her head, ultimately causing it to feel sore. Slowly her limbs began to stir, until eventually her body grew weary of its self-flagellation and finally permitted her to sit slowly upright. Her muscles ached painfully and her joints were stiff, thus it took some time before she was able to push herself off the grubby floor. She stood for a moment, unsteady on her feet, after which she began to walk gingerly around in an attempt to shake off the last of the fog still clinging to her mind. She eased her body back into motion, by slowly pacing around the chamber’s circumference several times.

Setting her body to purpose once more, she followed the dark exit tunnel back to Krashnar’s dingy workshop. She had grown accustomed to the gloom shrouding the Meldbeast’s pen, thus the tunnel appeared lighter now than when she had first stepped foot into its foreboding darkness. As expected, the workshop remained empty, exactly as the insidious shaper had left it. She supposed it unlikely that Krashnar had any plans to return to his hide. So assured were they of their success that neither had given any thought to securing his subterranean abode prior to their abrupt departure. Seeing the grizzly workshop again up close stirred painful memories. She took no solace in the role she had played in restoring Lileah back to health. Lileah’s altered form – now one of fused metal and flesh – was both disturbing and wondrous to behold. Although Krashnar had been the one to ultimately save Lileah from certain release, it was she who had prevented the restored telepath from becoming an androgynous construct wrought from the twisted shaper’s lacklustre imagination. Krashnar’s works were at best functional – though more often abhorrent – in their appearance, therefore she had made the conscious decision to prevent the same stigma from afflicting her former lover. During Lileah’s restoration, she had painstakingly directed Krashnar’s work, ensuring that her lover retained at least part of her femininity despite the shaper robbing her of the rest. The result of their combined efforts was horrifyingly beautiful; Lileah’s entire torso was now fused with a bronze metal alloy. The work was extensive – necessarily so – to prevent the spread of infection from Lileah’s grievous wound, caused by the Blade Paladin Nathanar, which had been the final hammer-blow in their defeat. Yet despite their successful efforts to save Lileah from release, the impetuous Freylarkin had lost much of her manoeuvrability and could no longer bear children.