Welcome to Gaia! ::

Pronounced Eye un dine

It's a temporary working title. It makes no sense unless you explore the theme that the word holds. Basically, Iundai in the language means both sky and freedom, the N at the end makes it a proper noun, meaning 'the people who are free'. It's a sort of subplot/theme. But now I'm getting into stuff I shouldn't.

This is my current novel. I'm on the rewrite, after having started it as a short story then halfway through deciding to turn around and make it into a novel instead because so much happened in it and I was developing so many story lines and ideas that I couldn't contain it into a certain number of words. Then I ended up with a novela and now I am starting over again to get it to the proper word count.

Anyway, I'm ranting. Basically, it is an action romance set in a fantasy world. I guess I'll start posting things, chapters and stuff, and hope for some good feedback. Maybe.

First chapter, this has been rewritten two times now. At least. Prolly more, but meh. I've gotten it to a place I sort of like, but I feel it might be too wordy, too descriptive, and lacks that special something that makes the reader care about the character that is all important in a first chapter. I've got to nail this one, and I don't know how. Any suggestions? Any at all?


Chapter 1

The taste of blood lingered in Léywin’s mouth for hours on end though the night, curling around her tongue in persistent circles that never quite ceased no matter her attempts to quiet it. Pain throbbed through her body with no source but her heart, which pumped the flaring heat through her veins. It pulsated around her, swarming her and coating her in hot red coals.

Slowly, reluctantly, she let herself slip into the fogginess of the waking world. Sleep wouldn’t stay; sweet, painless sleep that was dim and dark and soft. Another pain flooded through her and send blinding white sparkles across her face. She remembered pain and fear. Death. Nightmares. But she didn’t remember how or when or where.

Blood rushed through her ears, howling like wind. There were no other sounds. There weren’t even the typical sounds of the city: no horses’ hooves clapping along stone streets, no wind shuddering through the vines and curtains, no frost sizzling as the faint sunlight hit it and melted it, no people. The world was empty and silent and pounding.

Rolling over, the sun burned against her skin and scorched through to her eyes. She winced and threw up a hand to shield herself. The sun was raw and hot. There didn’t seem to be any wind or clouds. There was no shade from the mountain, but there was just a little shade brushing against her lips that she couldn’t discern from where it came.

The bed was hard and grainy against her head and shifted through her hair in a disgusting and unclean manner. It was uncomfortable, horrible. It emanated pain. She rolled over again, back to her stomach, and let her hair drape over her eyes. The ground was still hard, but it was softer on her face than it had been on her head. It was hard on her shoulder too, and her ribs. Maybe she had bruised herself somehow. She couldn’t imagine how. But it didn’t matter. She nuzzled her face back into her pillow. Time to sleep. And immediately she spit out a mouthful of sand and dust.

She coughed and sputtered and dust billowed out in front of her, spiralling and curling and landing upon her with the other grime already stuck there upon her sweat.

Her eyes shot open.

Light shone down upon her, tinted green with the leaves of the canopy high above her, hot and bright. Sand and dirt spread out around her and crumbled around the red roots that stuck up around the edges of the clearing and travelled upwards toward the searing sky. She blinked about. The sight struck her and lolled around in her mind; empty.

She didn’t recognize any of it. It was dry and dead. Foreign.

A twig cracked somewhere far away. The sound thundered across the trees and through her head, resounding and colliding inside her skull with a horrible, ear splitting racket. She saw red. She moaned. It echoed through her head and stung, finally dimming away into a rhythmic flood. Headache. s**t.

She tried to sit up, but found herself wobbly and dizzy. She felt hung over, but she never drank. Pushing herself to remember why just hurt. Everything was hazy. Wine, smoke, and the strong smell of alcohol flittered across her memory, in and out of focus. A party. Water. Fire.

She shuddered. She just couldn’t remember. It was blank.

“Don’t move.”

Something solid hit Léywin’s head as the voice pounded through her. She reacted immediately, trying to turn to see what was there, but the cold, hard object was shoved harder against the back of her skull.

A hollow click sounded. She froze. Suddenly the awareness that had been trying to seep in before forced itself into her being, and she didn’t want it.

“Put your hands on your head. No sudden movements,” the voice behind her said. It was a man’s voice. Deep and imposing. She obeyed. Her mind was numb and unable to think for itself, it flew so quickly. She just didn’t know how.

She could hear the man’s breath behind her. He was close. The gun pushed hard against her head, angling upward.

“Stand up. Slowly.”

Léywin didn’t think twice. She followed as it raised, feeling the cold sweat condensing on her forehead. Fear sent shivers through her and racked her body. The barrel pressed against her head once more and then the pressure was relieved. Her heartbeat thudded through her head, pumping into her ears and beating hard against her ribcage until she thought it would burst. The sun beat upon her. Cold sun. Dead sun.

“Move and you die.”

Her mouth uttered soundless prayers, and she closed her eyes tightly. Images flashed across her mind’s eye, ghastly and terrifying. A miniature bullet shot through her head and created a giant hole that splattered thick, clotted blood in all directions. Her face mangled. She continued to live through the pain. She bit her lip hard and made herself not think. Don’t think. It was dangerous. She could hear behind her somewhere as he stepped away, then she heard something hit the ground. The sound rammed through her and shook her body. She winced. He was doing something, rummaging through something. She tried to imagine what he might be doing, what he might be looking for, anything to forget the loaded death weapon that sat inches from her head ready to drive fire through her skull. But her mind turned up blank, with too many options.

She forced her eyes open. The sunlight blinded her before the impression of a forest sunk in. Great redwood trees towered above her, bearing down upon her, trapping her. Around her, everything was spinning in circles and jumping and lunging. Her head hurt. She suddenly couldn’t see and there was a pressure on her chest, like a thousand weights pulling her down. She struggled to stay standing, not to move, for the threat still lay behind her, leering death in her face.

Then came the pain.

A lightning bold shuddered through her body, implanting itself deep in her core and causing her lungs to fail, then spread throughout her again and sent her mind reeling. The world went bright white then sudden black. For a moment, Léywin was sure that her heart had stopped beating. No one could survive a pain like that. No one. She shook and opened her eyes that she now found closed. Tears blurred her sight. But all was still. The world was alright.

Then the piercing pain struck through her again. She winced and had to struggle not to double over in pain. It hurt so much. It was a flood of fire blazing across her skin and flowing through her veins. She tried to breathe, but her lungs were not allowed the luxury before another wave of agony bludgeoned her. It struck through her body and broke into branches through her torso, not letting her breathe, not letting her scream, not letting her cry. What had she ever done? What had she done to deserve this? Why couldn’t she just die? Make it go away.

She couldn’t tell what was happening. Behind her, for what it seemed, the man was still rummaging around in something. The gun was no longer against her head. The forest was silent.

Yet a lashing fury resounded in her temples. She was granted a sharp intake of breath that only caused another excruciating pain and blinding flash to her eyes. She forced her head to follow the light through her body. Going. Going. It was disappearing. And she was falling.

A noise of surprise sounded behind her as the ground came closer and her tortured boy gave out. The gun was thrust back to her head, then a strong arm wrapped around her waist. Pain jarred through her and she managed to finally cry out.

“s**t,” the man said. The gun dropped to the ground, and he grabbed her with both his arms, lowering her to the ground. Léywin gasped and sputtered to breathe. Each inhale send a new pain that racked her from head to toe. The man hovered over her, a dark blur that ripped off its cloak and shoved it under her head for support.

Léywin looked down. Her head lolled. The man hurriedly removed her corset, pulling it away from the mess that remained. Blood encrusted gashes through the thick material on it, but she only glimpsed this as it was thrown aside. She watched it land in the dirt, breathing quick and shallow. That’s my corset, she thought. What are you doing with my corset? What have you done to me? But all that came out was a mangled cry as her entire body spasmed.

“Try to stay conscious,” he said. “Your wounds may not be fatal.”

Wounds? Fatal? Léywin struggled to understand, and she pushed herself up to see.

And again, she could not breathe.

There was a large slash across her ribcage and a hole in her side. Blood seeped around the open flesh which was curled and pulled away to reveal pink moistness. A small level of white protruded from one wound where the skin no longer covered her rib. Blood oozed from three bullet holes in her shoulder. She could even see the blood gathering on the ground through one of the holes and a gash in her side.

Nausea crept up, but was swiftly defeated by another wave of pain. She cried out and tried to clutch at the wound. It hurt. It hurt so much. Her face scrunched up. She just wanted it to go away. She just wanted to die.

The man ripped her hands away and pinned them down. “Don’t touch it. You will cause more damage than there already is.”

He let her go and brushed her hair away, then began prodding the bullet holes in her shoulder. She screamed and her muscles pulled her body into another spasm. He grabbed her hand and held it, letting her cling to him desperately, her eyes tearing and pleading. Help me.

“There are bullets still lodged in your shoulder.” He set her hand down and reached for the bag he had been searching through. “I’ll need to remove them. This is going to hurt. A lot.”

Léywin nodded through her gasps and closed her eyes tightly. She would let him do anything. It didn’t matter if he raped her or if he killed her or if he saved her. There was nothing left to do but try. And she wanted to live.

She felt as his fingers began to dig into her wounds. Her jaw clenched, and she tried hard not to scream, holding her breath and digging her nails into her palms to the point that she knew it should hurt, but she could not feel it. It hurt, it seared at her heart and soul and killed her over and over again. He went deeper, widening the skin and clutching the tiny, metal bullet, then yanked it out. The pressure subsided for a moment, then was followed by a river of blood. She let the air in her lungs out in a ragged scream and began sobbing, and his fingers once again began searching for another bullet.

She followed his actions as he worked. It hurt so much. Then when he put his fingers in to get out the bullets, it ripped apart her flesh and hurt even more. One bullet took an eternity. Then soon followed a second. Then a third. Then a thousand more. The little daggers burst into flame under her skin and sent blood pouring in all directions. She forced herself to ignore it. There was no pain, she was okay, she was back home in bed. How many times had she been shot? It seemed there had only been a few wounds, so why was it taking so long? Why wouldn’t the pain just go away? She wanted it to go away. She tried to picture the clearing and the trees instead. It was so green, so red, red like pain. Red like blood and coals and fire and death. Maybe this was death. Just death giving her one last look and then she could escape. But she couldn’t feel the pain anymore. She couldn’t feel at all. She was floating in a black, cloudless sky and it felt good. It was comfortable. She gave in to the sudden weariness that stretched out its lovely fingers, and she finally relaxed. She could float away. Float away and leave everything behind. The pain of death would be gone forever. The pain of life would be gone. Everything would be happy again, like before, how they used to be. She could die. She could dream. Just dream. It would be wonderful. The darkness was enclosing, but it wasn’t so bad. It could be worse. It wasn’t even that cold…

“Stay awake!”

A hard, swift hand smashed across her face and snapped her into awareness again, gasping and sputtering and breathing once again. “If you fall asleep, you won’t be waking up.”

Her face contorted at the wave of agony that flooded through her. Water splashed across her and sifted through her wounds, and a cloth was run across the gashes in her flesh. She forced herself to watch as her own skin was sewn up, first one bullet hole then another then the giant, gaping hole in her side. It was nauseating, but somehow she forgot it was her own skin and not somebody else’s. Her eyes hung heavily, watching as the man hovered patiently over his work. He was handsome, she thought. Handsome. Sweet to save her.

He pulled back and stood up. She noticed now that the cloak was not under her head, but thrown over her and keeping her warm, yet something soft still remained cradling her head. She reached up and felt at her shoulder. It was tightly bandaged, though she could not remember him doing this.

“Rest now,” he said softly. “You’ll live.”

She squinted and blinked at him, grasping the small necklace that hung about her neck, and his black outline blurred as she finally gave way to fatigue.

Thanks for the feedback biggrin

So, I can get rid of the handsome sweet thing. I wasn't too sure about it. It was an iffy thing.

I'll try to put more thought. I just don't know how to put it, because she is very groggy and not hugely capable of thinking straight. It'd help to put her thought process in to show that, yes, but it's difficult to do without sounding stupid or repetative, because her thoughts are going to be very repetative. Dunno. Thank you though. I will try to fix it up.

And I'll put more up once I get it through with. Chapter two should be up in a day or so. Thankyous!

rofl Everything's sexy to Kirby... and for once, I agree!

*has a party rofl *
I'm always willing to give feedback... I mean, go ahead and talk about the swirling grogginess of painfilled blackness that fills her head like fifteen times. But just be like, "she was confused, wondering, unable to comprehend... Everything was a swirling blackness of groggy pain..." rofl I would be scared if you used that! heart

This one, I'm afraid there is too much information too fast. I didn't mean for it. It just kind of came when I was putting together the dialogue.

And it's supposed to be confusing, just in case you're wondering.



CHAPTER 2

Léywin’s eyes shot open. She blinked against the morning light, shielding her soft, emerald eyes and stretching out, yawning. A nightmare, again, had plagued her sleep. There had been light and fire and blood, she thought, spilled across her pillow.

She shook out her long, black mane and reached out her hand. The pillow and blankets were smooth against her skin, but there was no blood. There never had been. It was only a dream, as it always was. Only a dream.

She shuddered. It had felt so real, though. It always felt so real. The blood rushed through her veins as the adrenaline pumped through her, just like she remembered, just like it always did. The danger, the adventure, had been real, had been alive, and she longed to get it back. It was amazing what freedom sleep offered. It was amazing what lies the mind could create.

Papers fluttered around the room, long lost butterflies whispering on the wind and spreading calm around the staleness. Books brushed open and closed, floating in the wind. The books—opened, closed, in piles and stacks, losing pages or bindings, with writings in various odd symbols and languages—littered the floor and tabletops in a well developed mess. Horses clapped in the street below, and people called out their greetings just as they did day after day after day.

Letting out a long breath, she watched as a stream of mist arose and dispersed into the air. The mountains had set upon the city another cold morning. Perhaps the festival welcoming the autumn would have a difficult time getting started. She looked over to the balcony and out upon the city. Antedemoine was filled with colourful banners blowing in the wind, and already she could hear the distant sound of music wafting in off the mountain air. It was happy and joyous; music of the common people who loved and celebrated the earth within the marble city walls. It was heathen, as she was told, heathen as the Outcasts. Dangerous. It was not the sombre and carefully written sheet music of the Civilized folk.

Léywin sat up. The silken sheets crumpled around her, her hair fell about her shoulders, and it was swept away by a gust of wind that hit her from the nearby door. She drew the sheets up around her and squinted into the cold. This was a poor wakeup call.

Then her hand neared her neck, and she paused. She brushed her fingers across the pale skin of her clavicle, searching, but her fingers found nothing. She dropped the blanket and began searching frantically. Nothing was there. Her eyes grew wide and her breath started to quicken, but it was not there, and she stopped and bit her lip. She stood up and began pushing aside ancient papers on her nightstand, shoving books and quills and letting them clatter to the ground. She still couldn’t find it. Ignoring the stone cold floor against her bare feet, she tiptoed hurriedly to a bookshelf and began displacing things there. She could not have lost it. Not now.

There was a bang from downstairs, echoing up the stairway and through the open door that caused her to jump and turn. A glint of light from the desk caught her eye, and she sighed. Relief flooding through her, she strode over and reached out, taking the small, silver pendant that lay there in her hand.

She cradled the piece within her fingers, stroking it softly. It stretched half the length of her thumb, a small rectangle ending in a dull point and bound upon a tiny, linked chain. Twisting patterns wove up the centre of it, binding together and narrowing into the bottom. It was smooth and soft, and it reflected the morning light with a faint sparkle of hope, like a long lost treasure from a mystical land. Her treasure.

Léywin clutched it tightly and held it to her heart. Upon the desk, centred within a small clearing in the clutter, sat a picture frame, weaving around the edge of a black and white photograph. A man stood within it, smiling at the primitive camera, in his stately and noble way, looking out upon his jewel, and she met his gaze with a suppressed longing. About his neck hung a shining piece of silver, the same as the one that Léywin now clutched in her hand as if it held the essence of her life. He was only a picture, a memory, but something in his eyes was forever familiar.

“Dianden…” Her whisper echoed into the air, carrying into the crevices of the room and dissipating into memory with the man. She knelt next to the desk and came face to face with the picture. He smiled warmly at his treasure as she stroked the frame, sighing and closing her eyes, remembering. He was only a man. Only a memory. Something she lost.

There was another bang from downstairs, and then laughter followed. Léywin opened her eyes and forced her jaw to unclench. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t go to check. She wouldn’t.

Slowly, she pushed herself up. Still staring at her Dianden, she reached around behind her neck and fastened the chain. The cold morning blew itself in on the wind again, and she turned to the balcony. The city was beginning to wake in its dull existence, and as Léywin looked upon its hollow streets, she wondered…

Bang.

Laughter again, but louder this time, and more frenzied.

She sighed and left the picture alone in the frigidness, hurrying to get dressed. Honestly, the woman never stopped. She was supposed to be the grownup of the house, yet Léywin found herself to be more adult. More logical and level-headed. More real.

Downstairs was considerably warmer, she soon discovered. The fires were roaring in their places, battling the autumn ice. The grey walls glittered with the light and bounced it about the many rooms. The stair way opened up into a cosy parlour, decorated with expensively dull black wooded furniture. The smell of flowers accented the air and mingled with the alcoholic residue that wasted about the place. Léywin shook her head and followed the sound of hysterical laughter through the doorways and out of the heart of the manor.

“Léywintái! Darling, you are awake.”

Two women sat at the table in the breakfast room, laughing happily at one another’s jokes and holding glasses half filled with wine. The woman who spoke looked very much like Léywin, with long, black hair drawn up into a tight bun, pale skin, and soft, oval face. She was slender and graceful with golden jewellery decking her head and ears and neck. The other woman was younger with light brown hair and skeletal features, jewelled the same as the other, with her hair curling around her face and hoards of dark makeup around her eyes. Both were dressed in long, flowing dresses of many layers of undergarments, skirts, and vests; one in green and the other in purple.

Léywin was greeted by the outstretched arms of the black haired woman beckoning her to give her a hug, but she would not move. “Mairin and I were just wondering how long you would remain asleep.” She chuckled and let her arms down, already forgetting her intended hug as she became top heavy and lost her balance on the stool.

“Fion! Shush!” The other, Mairin, said. “It is still early. The girl need not be up at the crack of dawn. Why, you! You yourself were still nearly asleep when I arrived, lolling around on the couch as if you had not a care in the world!”

Fion shook her head, stifling a laugh behind her hand and hiccupping. “Oh yes, she should. She always has been such a one to wake early and get straight to the day ahead. I have an excuse, at least, since I must provide the house. You would never know! Am I not right, darling?”

Léywin nodded at her mother’s question, then, bowing pardon, she took the wine glasses and bottle away from the women and backed up. “It is good to meet you, Madam. Did my mother say that your name is Mairin?” She went to the table and set the wine far away from the women’s reach. If they wanted more, they would have to go get it. She would not put up with this so early in the morning. “It is a lovely name. It means ‘meadow’ in the Ancient language, did you know?”

Mairin smiled kindly upon Léywin, half surprised. “Why, yes, it does. My, you are a bright child, are you not?”

The woman giggled on and stared. The look she gave the younger girl was unsettling. It was soft and longing and very slightly hungry.

“Of course she is. She has always been such a hard worker, always studying this or that. You would hardly know she was a child! Mairin, you should see her, up at all hours of the night. It is something strange, certainly, especially for a young woman. You would not know, would you, but honestly, did ever you stay up until you forgot to sleep when the morning came? This child has! I caught her up, not a week ago, still pouring over her books. Have ever you seen that even of your sons? No! I tell you! But, you, indeed, tell me, how old is your son now? Not the married one, I know he is old, but the other.”

“He has only recently turned nineteen, but I say, he never stops growing or eating! Dain was never like this!”

The two laughed hysterically for no reason at all, clutching at one another to keep from falling off the bench. Léywin supposed it was a mother thing, or a woman thing. She tried to follow the conversation. She thought she remembered meeting the boy once. He had been spoiled, of course, just like the other one no doubt was, this Dain. His name was… Barlin, or something like that; something stupid that attempted to mimic the proper old names of the Ancients. Someone had not bothered to put effort into appearing intelligent. Only wealthy. No doubt it was this ‘meadow’ who had chosen the name, after she had been so proud of her own name and the heritage it assumed.

“Ah.” Fion finally calmed herself. “He is a good age. But too old. Too old. The time goes by too quickly, I fret. Léywin, dear, butter and honey some bread for us too, would you?”

At a table a little away, Léywin began searching for bread and mixed a bowl of honey, watching her mother and her mother’s friend exchange drunken looks.

“I remember when your son was that age, Fion. He was a handsome one, he was. Ah, that was a good child.” Mairin settled into a dreamy daze for a while. She was just old enough to remember Fion’s other child, but had been young herself, and nearly ready to marry. She had been too young to understand the impact at all. And Léywin had not even existed.

Silence fell across the room. Léywin glanced up and watched them for a while, as they lolled about, not meeting one another’s gaze. Tension settled in a bit, but the drink was too strong and she could see in their faces as they forgot about it almost immediately and went off into something new. Mairin sipped at a glass of water she had there, mulling over some thought or another in her pristine way, then started, “I hear the Chancellor is calling for stricter laws against crime.”

“Good!” Fion pushed herself up from her sulking state, and sat at her full height. Léywin was reminded for a moment of the old days, when her mother had a demanding presence, of when she had been in line to be wife of the Chancellor, when her husband had been the kindly General at Arms, and she the proud wife. “Those damned commoners need to learn that they cannot steal or fight or partake in their barbaric practices without being punished properly. The freedom the government offers us is a gift, it is precious. No other government in the world could offer us such opportunities. They are too crude and rudimentary to do so. No society is as advanced as we, nor better nor happier or better protected. Why can they not see that? They should embrace it and enjoy it while it lasts for us. They are lucky they are not banished to the Lost Lands, the heathens. It is where they belong.”

Léywin gave a piercing stare at her mother while buttering the bread.

“I do not know, Fion. They do not need to make the punishment harsher, I feel, but the reward for good doing greater.”

“Ha! Reward!” She threw her head back and laughed, then brought it back up, suddenly glaring. “The little vermin would like to use it to make weapons and war against us. They already protest, rebel, attack us in our sleep. And for what? Because we have a higher standing. We follow the law, and they call us such names and accuse us of such things, but if they only would do their role in society, the poor rags would be as wealthy as we, and that is not at all so wealthy. There have been worse tyrants to use more money.”

“You are ungenerous, friend. You exaggerate. Such cases have not occurred in so long.”

“Aha!” Fion laughed in triumph and bounded down her fist. “You admit, they do occur, though. And once it happens, it will happen again. You can be sure of that.”

“I know one of the middle class, though. He is a friend to my youngest and often works in my household for a small amount of pay. He is young and kind and never have I known him to do something against me nor wish me harm. Not in my home or in his.”

“Well then do not turn your back on him for an instant. Do not trust the likes of the underclass, dear Mairin. They are all the same. He is like to steal your jewellery or a pricey vase.”

“More likely you would steal one,” Léywin muttered.

Both women looked up at her in surprise. Fion stared in astonishment.

“Léywin! Pardon yourself! How dare you say such a thing!”

Léywin bowed her head and averted her eyes a** he came over and set them down their honey bread breakfast.

“It is true. You know very well, Tianden. The rich may steal. The rich may kill. And they may get away with it easier than the lower classes would. It is a poor generalization to say that it is the poor who commit crimes. Their crimes are the petty ones, the ones for survival, while ours are the ones for greed.”

Fion frowned at her. “Hold your tongue. You know not of what you speak. You are young still.”

Léywin glared at her a moment, then slowly eased her face and nodded an apology. She walked around to the far end of the table and sat down with them, sipping at a glass of cider.

“Please excuse my daughter, Mairin. She still must learn how to be prudent.” Fion glared one last time then turned her back to Léywin. “I should marry her soon. A husband would teach her well some manners. I have had some suitors here to meet her already, but always she turns them down. I do not understand her. I was fourteen when I was married to Hendrick. Yes, I know, do not give me that look. The law was different then, I could marry at the age. You were too young to remember, I am sure, for they changed it soon after. But even so, why the girl will not marry is beyond my knowledge. I have her a beautiful house down the street there and a family who keeps it for us, and an inheritance five times what I had when I left home. Ah well, I know not. But I suspect she will like that Haren boy, the one who lives near the river in that house set all by itself. You know the one. His father is treasurer of the board.”

Mairin had been glancing to and from Léywin and Fion uncertainly, but now she stopped and examined the girl very closely. “Is she really old enough to marry? Léywin, how old are you?”

“I’ve been seventeen since spring, Madam.” She took a bite of honey bread and leaned back in the chair.

“Léywin!” her mother whispered. “Speak properly, and for Light’s sake, sit up.”

“Seventeen? Goodness, it has been so long!” Mairin’s face lit up and she smiled and laughed back, not even noticing Fion who leaned forward in front of her. “I remember you as a toddler, after your brother had died, but I suppose you would not remember that.”

She shook her head.

“I knew your father, years ago. He helped my husband to find a place on the Senate. He was a wonderful man. And look,” she leaned down the table and brushed the hair from Léywin’s face. “You have your father’s eyes.”

Léywin watched her warily, shifting her eyes away from Mairin’s. She caught a glimpse of her mother, frowning at the floor and not looking; sad. The self pitying bigot.

Mairin laughed then pulled away from her. “I may care to say, though, that Hendrick was more of an entertainer. Yes, he so loved people. He would have been such a great leader…” Then, noticing Fion, she stopped, and the room went silent again.

The three women ate quietly. Léywin avoided looking at her mother, who she knew was still moping and wondering, as if it had only just happened, where her wine had gone. All of the years had gone by, she had raised Léywin by herself and survived them all, but still she remained a drunken wreck all because the man that she had been forced to love was gone and dead. It was pathetic. Léywin was embarrassed to have her as a mother. Who cared that she was still one of the most respected women in the city, only because of her late husband’s standing, but she was more pitiful than the lowest of the people living in the richly built sewers in the deepest areas of the mountain! No one really had reason to mourn so long, hardly even those who truly loved the one they had married, which was rare in any case, so why should she be one to do so?

“Léywin has accomplished so much, Mairin.” Fion spoke loudly and forcefully, breaking the silence with all the force she could muster. Léywin hardly stirred. She could only guess that the woman was trying to combat the ringing in her ears. “She will be a certified scholar soon.”

The younger woman brightened and turned back to Léywin, obviously relieved to have dropped the awkward silence. “Really? You will be a scholar? Most impressive. I could never do such a thing. I can hardly run my household for Blain, what with he and the boys still coming and going all the time and doing as they wish, I do not know how I would continue a career as well. You are an amazing girl, Léywin. What will you write your thesis on?”

“I—”

“Actually, Léywin specializes on the Ancients and the history of the Lands,” her mother butt in. “She knows all the language and way of life and how it has passed down to our Civilian culture. The intricacies of it are amazing. I can hardly follow when she tries to explain her day’s findings over dinner. The first years were the worst for me, to see her grow and mature so. And such knowledge so fast thrown at me! I do not know how she does it!”

“Really?” Mairin was excited now, taken in to the immensity of Léywin’s role. “You will be writing on our descent from them?”

“Sort of, but not exactly. See, I believe—”

“It is a secret study of which she should not discuss!” Fion stood up. She was irritated by Mairin’s questioning and interest, Léywin knew. She was afraid, as always. Her reputation was on the line. “Dear, go change your clothing. Mairin is a friend of the family, so your dress is just fine for now, but I will not have you seen in that black leather thing during my party. Put on something nice. Something fitting. And wear that gold necklace of yours, not… that. Be ready to help me prepare when Mairin leaves.”

“Oh, but Fion, can she not just stay a little longer? And her outfit is stunning, even if it is not quite befitting a lady. The corset, though, it is beautifully embroidered. Such crimson I have never seen!”

“I said she should go. She will go.”

Léywin sighed and stood up. She would not argue. She would obey, as always. “It was good to meet you, Madam.”

Her mother continued ranting and complaining as she left the room. “Clean your room, as well, before the guests arrive tonight. And for Light’s sake, do hide those filthy weapons of yours. I cannot have those lying about my house.”

“Put it down, Mother. You’ll have plenty of time to drink tonight.”

Behind her, her mother cursed and set the wine bottle down with a clank. “—how does that child always know?”

Unmoving, Léywin stared at the floor for a moment. The marble’s swirling pattern was a good distraction, and she followed it for a while, stepping forward and continuing on to her room. And soon the liquid shapes began to change. They sparkled and shone and wove into one another as if they were real water. She watched on in fascination. She was walking on water. It rippled beneath her as her boots touched it, and the ripple faded outward, spreading a warm crimson about the room. Then the ripples grew higher and became waves and struck the walls, tearing at them with force. She screamed and tried to run but found herself sinking into the lava. Flames crawled up her body and engulfed her, turning the world red and orange and blotting out the sun and sky and life.

Not quite sure what's wrong with this one. Maybe nothing. Maybe something huge. Dunno. If anyone bothers to read, feedback please. Is there something I missed or didn't explain fully or something I should delve into that would make her thought process seem more real?




CHAPTER 3

A fire crackled somewhere nearby. Warmth spread through the cold and the dark, and the familiar smell of smoke hung in the air. There was a soft breeze and a distant sound from the forest far away, like a howl from a lonely animal but soon quieted when approached by its mate. The fire would ward off the animals, it would ward off the bugs, and it would ward off the bitterness that nipped at every occupant of the city and country that unfurled around her. Léywin smiled, her eyes closed, safe under a blanket, suddenly overflowing with joy.

A fire in the hearth meant home.

She yawned and stared into the darkness of her eyelids. It was silly, now that she remembered. The week had gone by as normal, as had the day and the night. What dreams she had had! It almost made her chuckle to think of it. There had been rain and fire. What a nightmare. And a strange man in all black. Foolish. What had ever given her the assumption that it was real? Something in the dream, perhaps, made it seem as real as life. But now all was right. She was home. Comforting, wonderful home. She had fallen asleep in front of the fireplace, perhaps, when she was reading, and her mother had brought her a blanket and kept the fire for her, to protect her from the cold mountains. Such a sweet, caring woman. They had bickered that night, but what did it matter when they both knew that neither had really meant it. They never did. Everything was always fine. For now, she wanted her mother, her Tianden, to comfort and save her, childish as it were. She hadn’t done that in nearly a decade, but she wanted it now. The strange dream hounded her as if it still lived on, as if she were half asleep and half awake. It wasn’t real, of course. She would wake up soon. It was odd, though; she could remember going to bed and waking up. Another dream, she supposed. It wouldn’t bother her. She wouldn’t let it. Not in this lifetime. She pulled the blanket closer around her, stretched, and turned onto her side.

Blinding pain.

Her eyes shot open, and she glanced around. A fire popped and spitted in front of her, illuminating the darkness and just barely reaching the trees on the outer edge of the clearing. The canopy far above rustled slightly, but other than that, there was no sound. The breeze shuddered through her, jarring her heart. It was real. Real. And somehow, she wasn’t surprised.

She tried to recall the day’s events. Grogginess. Confusion. Pain and blood. And a stranger. But it wasn’t a stranger, it was an angel.
Léywin clutched her necklace and bit her lip. Blood. Pain. Blood. Light, what happened? She moaned and shifted around to fix the pain radiating through her. My head….Why can’t I remember?

Stars played about her vision, tormenting her. Laughing. Nothing made sense. Even the fire in front of her was blurry, distant. Pictures crawled in and out of her view. Stone, fire, water, a bird, her mother, her father, golden light, blackness. Red. So much red.

Why can I not remember…? She recalled her night. She had gone to bed fuming. The night had been horrible, and the morning had not been much better. But after… the day had disappeared into nightmare.

She sighed. She didn’t know. She just didn’t know. The last memory she had could have been months ago, for all she knew, except she was wearing the same clothing. But that meant little. And her necklace was all bloody. But why?

She rubbed the blood off and let it flake to the ground, staring up at the sky.

The fire shifted and threw her out of her thoughts. She jumped. She had forgotten where she was. She didn’t know how she had, but she had. She pushed herself up to sitting. And immediately, she fell back.

“You may not want to do that. It hurts.”

Léywin chuckled through pained gasps. The Man certainly had a sense of humour.

She sat up again, this time more carefully. She could feel a little blood seeping through her stitches. That would take a while to heal again. She pushed the cloak off herself and ran her hands across her torso. Her corset was returned to her and tied loosely around the bandages on her person. She wondered how long it would take to heal. This was nothing like a little cut that would scar over soon. These wounds were extensive and deep. She could feel the flaps of skin rubbing one another, and it felt as if her rib was broken.

She held her side and looked around the clearing. It was all foreign. It was so warm, even though it was night. So odd. “Where are we?”

There was silence. She looked across the fire to where he sat, resting against a tree and engulfed by shadow. His black hair hung down in front of his eyes and fluttered in the warm breeze, and his dark eyes watched her closely.

“You mean, you do not know?”

Léywin shook her head, but he merely glanced away to the fire. She could only imagine where she was. It was warm despite autumn, and it was green, it was dry. And though she was certain it was true, she didn’t want it to be. It was frightening. But, then again, she had been bleeding to death not long ago, and she had survived against all her doubts. Anything was possible now. But she would not make assumptions just yet.

The silence grew. She had not expected him to answer; the quiet was answer enough. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He hadn’t moved. He was sitting like a stone, the firelight playing off his chiselled features. His skin was smooth and light coloured, yet tanned in a way, characteristic of the culture she was afraid she was thrown into. It only added to her suspicions, sending her heart sinking. The shadows seemed to enclose around him, threatening, frightening.

“There is a bit of meat on the fire for you,” he said. “It should be good to eat now.”

Léywin looked down, blushing. She had been caught watching.

Mumbling quick thanks, she took the chunk of meat off the fire and sniffed it. Nausea welled in her stomach, but her mouth watered for the animal flesh. She needed it. She craved it, and she wished that some blood remained dripping from the dry meat. The thought of juicy, blood soaked, delectable meat called to her, but her stomach protested. She did not know how long it had been since she last ate. Maybe days. Maybe weeks. She forced bite after bite into her mouth, ignoring the nausea until it went away.

“Your wounds were not all bad.” He spoke from within the shadows, quietly, yet the sound carried and echoed loudly. “Only two bullets remained in your shoulder. The other went all through, and there seemed to be a fourth which merely skimmed you.”

Léywin looked down at the tightly wrapped bandage and ran her fingers across it. It was tender.

“One bullet lodged against the bone, and I had to widen the site of penetration to get at it. You are lucky. No bullets pierced your lungs. They were all isolated to that one shoulder. And the stab wound on your side did not puncture any organs, but it did fracture a rib slightly. The rest was minimal. But it will take long to heal.”

She nodded quietly. Who would do this? What have I ever done, ever?

The forest was very still. It was nothing like the city, where even on the quietest of nights you could still hear the baker down the street whistling to himself as he prepared his bread for the next day’s morning rush, or you could hear the blacksmith far off in the market district still toiling and sweating for his pay. Even after holidays, when everyone was drunken and hung over, it was never this quiet. It was never silent. Never. It was unnerving and distressful, and despite the warmth of the fire and air, she shivered. Something was terribly wrong.

She could feel the Man’s eyes boring into her. It stung and writhed inside her, unbearable. But across the fire, he was not looking at her. He was looking into the red and orange flames. He was glaring. Staring vacantly. Glaring again with dead eyes.

He could not have done this, whatever this feeling is, she thought. What good would it do to put the time and effort into saving someone’s life only to kill them again? What am I thinking? I am fine. I am alive. Hesitantly, pushing past the nausea and irrational heartache, she forced herself to eat again and carry on as if nothing was the matter.

“What time is it?”

The Man’s head jerked up. He stared at her unblinking for a few moments before answering. “I imagine it is sometime near midnight. You slept quite a while.”

She nodded again and bit her lip. “And, uh… where are we?”

A shiver ran through the forest and engulfed them. The fire sputtered and the leaves rattled. Léywin pulled the cloak around her shoulders. She had never before felt so cold.

Then she saw it. Bile pooled in her mouth as her heart and stomach dropped lower than the ground and continued down even more. A different kind of pain shot through her and clutched at her and ripped her away from herself. How could she not have noticed…?

Slowly, robotically, she let the remainder of the food dwindle down next to the fire. The cloak had pulled away from her legs, revealing her feet, booted and laced tightly… with a metal shackle attached to her ankle.
She stared at it. A chain led off from it, winding through the sand, staked into the root of a nearby tree. She tugged it. It didn’t budge.

Of course, she thought. How could I be so stupid? Things are not better. Life does not improve, does not go on, simply because I live. Of course not. Pain welled up and pooled about the base of her heart, sinking into her stomach and splintering through her body. Of course this stranger, this Man, he will not save me. Just because I was dying. Just because I was in need and helpless. No one would do that. I am no good alive to anyone, let alone him. Never. Stupid, stupid. I’m alive, but who cares? He will not. I don’t…

Pushing the cloak back down to hide the restraint, Léywin sighed and stared into the fire. It danced and turned and sparked. It was alive and merry and free. She took a stick and poked at it. She hated it. It could burn in hell. Yet it was not free. It was contained to this little section of ground. It was controlled. It was created when one wanted to create it, and it was fed when one wanted to feed it, and it died when one wanted to kill it. It was not free at all. And it was not so unlike her.

“These are the Lost Lands.”

Léywin glanced up lazily at the Man. The booming echo of his voice had startled her, but she would not show it. She knew that he saw her. He sensed her terror. She knew it. She hated him. She would not give him the satisfaction, the contempt, of seeing her in pain. Not for this.

“We are in Outcast country, just west of the river and the Isle of Ishmaline.”

She had been right, and she was not surprised at all. Only something that bad could happen to her. Only fate could hate her so much. She was in the barbarian territory. The heathen realms. The Lost Lands. And she was a prisoner. She could feel his eyes monitoring her closely. She knew what he wanted. He was waiting for a sign. He wanted to know that this would affect her; that perhaps she would panic or be overtaken by despair. She was a Civilian, after all. The people of the Civilized Land were weak and pathetic. They were pampered and didn’t know hardship. It was presumptuous for him to think so… but he was right. She knew it, but she would not allow him to know it was true. She would not give him that satisfaction. She was not a representative of her country.

“You did not finish your meat.” His eyes were penetrating into her thoughts. Those evil eyes. They burned. They were poison. They mocked her. She wanted to vomit. She wanted to break loose and swear at him and punch him and stab him until he was a mangled mess. She couldn’t believe this had happened. He had been so kind. Now she saw past the act though. Now she saw his venom more closely. Those pistols sat beside him on the roots of the tree, and next to those lay two short swords, bloodied and red. They loomed at her. Of course. How stupid of her; swords and guns and a bleeding victim to prove it. She gave him a vicious glare. She hated him. She would kill him for this, for what he had done to her, for leading her astray. And even that glare made him avert his eyes and stare into the fire again.

Silence plucked away at her heart; a dull aching silence in which only a fire crackled and the ghostly howl of the wind engulfed and smothered all hope and life. She blinked away the tears that formed in her eyes and tried to quiet herself, rocking very gently as to not catch the Man’s attention.

I saw this coming, she thought. It is no surprise. Do not be weak. There is no room for weakness.

The fire raged and blossomed, trying to escape, trying to destroy. Destroy and kill and never surrender. Never back down. Kill.

This is how things are. There is no point in wishing differently.

She closed her eyes. In her mind, she envisioned a river, a stream, the dripping of water. It rushed through her veins, roaring and screaming. The banks eroded away and drifted down the river and broke into tiny, fragmented pieces.

I must look only at what is, not at what it seems.

The river pounded, sloshing against the earth and destroying its firm holding.

Quiet your mind. Be still.

Snow began to fall, and the stream stopped in its confusion. The crystalline flakes wandered into the crevices of water and froze them as they tried to carry on. It trickled, lively and merry, working onward, always onward, to the ocean. Serenity. Frozen.

This is how things are.

She watched a snowflake flutter down from her sky. Wonder and awe cradled her as it flew in whatever direction it chose. It was free. It carried on, flitting about, until it came down to her and hovered above her face. She stared at it with wide eyes, then ever so slowly reached out and touched it. Immediately it began to morph, struggling and kicking and fighting, then finally bursting into flame and lunging at her face.

Léywin sat up. Her heart pounded and a cold sweat dripped down her face. She looked around wildly at the darkness and the clearing. Everything was fine. Everything was the same. It was a dream.

She looked across the fire to the Man. He was no phoenix. A phoenix was what she remembered. He was frightening, yes, but not a monster. Not evil. He did not do this.

She closed her eyes tightly and rubbed her head. She was confused. She was a prisoner. She was hurt and alone and in a strange land. She didn’t know. She just didn’t know.

She turned back to the Man and examined him again. He was imposing and dark. Strange. The fire played across him to make his face look gaunt.

See what is, not what it seems.

He was not so frightening. He was almost… sad?

“Do you remember anything of who did this to you?” he asked. Léywin started and looked to him warily and uncertainly. “Do you remember what happened?”

She stared at him blankly for a time, searching the mess of cloudy nightmares that had preceded her waking. Cold. Rain. Fire.
Pain. “Launenurma…"

“What?”

“Nothing.”

His piercing eyes left her once more and returned their gaze to the fire. Léywin joined in watching the embers dwindle and die, so dark and lifeless. Everything was happening so fast. Her head was rushing to the point it felt as sluggish and dead as the fire. Nothing seemed right. Nothing fit. Of the few thoughts that managed to slip in, she couldn’t decide which the right ones were. She would never get home again. She would be lost in this barren wilderness and killed by this heathen. No. Not a heathen. What was she thinking? She was starting to sound like her mother. But what could she think? The right thing…

“Thank you.” Léywin searched the Man’s face. He was almost entirely enveloped by shadow, and his eyes stared impassively into the fire. She was surprised that she had said it. She didn’t think she had the courage. She was shaking uncontrollably, yet the world around her was so still. “Thank you for saving me.”

She watched him closely. It was her turn now. She wanted to make him feel guilty, to know just what he was doing to her, to cry, to bleed. She wanted him to show a sign of feeling something.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said quietly. He continued to stare, black, shadowy eyes unreadable. Entirely still.

“But I will thank you. You saved my life. For whatever motive does not matter. Whatever comes will come, but for now, I owe you my gratitude and my life.”

He looked darkly at the fire and said nothing. As every moment went by, Léywin could have sworn that he collected the shadows around him more and more, like a wall of darkness, like a shield. She shifted her eyes away. She had done wrong by thanking him.

She lay back down, pushing away the Man’s cloak and the makeshift pillow, and looked to the stars.

She clutched her necklace and stroked it. The stars were visible through the little gap in the canopy, so twinkling and bright. Her father was somewhere up there. He had been to these lands and died here. The breeze that brushed her face was his touch, comforting her and telling her that in the morning sun, he would guide her. She did not always believe those superstitions. Religion was for the ignorant and poor. But the thought was a small amount of comfort, no matter how silly and irrational. She would try to make the best of things.
She took one last look at the stranger in the shadows. “I am Léywin,” she called. She never received a reply, but she did not need one. What would come would come. She could only hope something would change.

I hate you. stare

You don't have to be a good writer to write a good story. All you need is courage and imagination! rofl

I wish I could get a critique like that! gonk I'd probably die, though, waiting for the person to finish reading... You must be really nervous! Don't worry! I've been writing one story for six years... SO many rewrites... and bad reviews... It's okay, because it'll be freakin' AWESOME when it's all said and done!