Savage Divinity

Total Word Count: 23004 (nearly 5000 words today!)



It was a long trek to the no man\'s land that served as the boundary between Sempra and the Angel-stock\'s ten. Reson was silent on the journey, as were the majority of the dark ones that had joined the group. Royal on the other hand, was as boisterous as ever, singing, laughing, yelling as if it made no difference if they were heard or not. It was only after one of the gruff ones had clapped a hand over his mouth and glared that the raucous youngster finally quieted, but even with his mouth shut, his eyes and expression were loud and smiling.

Reson for his part, didn\'t mind so much. He was intent on one thing and one thing only, so the business going on outside of his own world made little difference to him in the long run. He took his care moving forward, avoiding any pit falls that could await him. He stepped over branches that were low to the ground, under branches that were high – avoided sound at nearly any cost, though he didn\'t quite go to such lengths as the ones behind him did. The silent, dark ones, their scowls set permanently.

How many have they lost? And what do they have to gain from this venture? Questions still echoed in the back of his mind, but they were easy to ignore. Just put one foot in front of the other, keep eyes forward and things seemed to melt away. Take the journey one step at a time, smile if you must, frown if it\'s easier, but one step… One at a time.

The winding brook they followed seemed to lead in circles. Reson avoided touching the water; others weren\'t as guarded as he. Mostly Royal\'s pack of puppies, splashing happily though the water as if it were there for their simplest enjoyment. Easily he avoided them, then, eyes open, eyes closed. He could hear them, could smell them with their filthy sweating bodies –

"Hold." Royal\'s voice, hushed. They all stopped, paused long enough to look to their presumed leader. He smirked back over his shoulder, crossing a hand to tap himself on his left shoulder. Not a signal of any sort that Reson understood, but its meaning seemed to be clear enough to everyone else. Follow. Silence.

They broke down into a line, following closely behind Royal, who seemed to know what he was doing. Reson wasn\'t quite sure how much of that was simply an act or how much of it had center in reality. Did Royal know what he was doing, one had to wonder… Or was this simply, as so many other episodes of this particular Vilyte\'s been – just a ruse?

Steps, steps…and Reson made his decision.

There was breathing. They were into fog, crossing fog banks, stumbling quietly through the land that was Ten. He presumed it was Ten, at least. The foggy place fit every description of Ten he had ever encountered. Not that he\'d been around long enough to have made it into Ten when Heaven had still be united, but…

I hear something. More than breathing. It\'s…alive? No, breathing is life, but – what is that?

"Royal – what is it?" one of the others whispered.

Royal laughed softly. "That my friend, is our goal. Gather up everyone – Angel-stock ahead, and it sounds like it\'s just one of the little half blooded traitors."

A thrill of excitement ran through Reson, coupled with a shudder of dread. It sounds like it\'s just one… What if it was more?

In for a cat, in for a mouse – it didn\'t matter what he thought because the group was moving off together, mad light forming between them all, shining with cruel intent. The bloodlust hung high in the air, sharp to the taste. Reson exalted in it even as he choked on the malicious intent. What would Coris think of him? He had to wonder. What would the Angel-stock back in his bet –

The image stopped him cold. The Angel-stock. With Coris. The reason he was out here in the first place. His resolve tightened, and his grip went to the sword that he\'d been gifted shortly after leaving the compound. He was ready. Royal lifted his sword. The others followed suit, Reson among them. Then they let out a bloody war scream and plunged forward as one, their maddened cry not quite echoing among the foggy banks but shifting among them, creating an odd atmosphere for murder.



Aron awoke suddenly. His senses were tingling, shaking. His eyes snapped open, searching, seeking. He could hear something as much as feel it. The fog banks were safe, but only so much so. The sounds that were mingling with the silent fogginess –

Oh no… His pulse began to pound with an incredible swiftness. That\'s – that\'s the Vilyte of Sempra! How he knew it he couldn\'t say. It couldn\'t be anyone from his own camp, though, that he knew. The camp of the Angel-stock did not send others out after others, not after what had transpired between him and Tenascus. I wish I hadn\'t told him not to send them now…though it probably was the best course. Little things, such little details and now he was suffering for a decision he had all but pushed through with his own two hands.

Lord, listen. Hear us, even if you fear us. Lord, listen. Hear us, even if you hate us. Lord, listen. Hear us, even if you will do nothing. The prayer of the Ages that had kept life alive through the times past jumped to his lips, his mind, sweeping him up. He knelt, drawing himself in, just waiting, wondering. The sounds that weren\'t came ever closer, and finally he stood, drawing his sword as he did so, his expression grim. Lord, listen. Hear me, even if you fear me. Lord, listen. Hear me, even if you hate me. Lord, listen. Hear me, even if you will do nothing. There is fear here, there is hatred here. There is nothing here worth salvaging. Guide my blade.

Perhaps it was the prayer itself, designed to invoke the fear and hatred necessary in fighting an enemy. Perhaps the God that had abandoned them in Heaven really did hear and sent grace of a sort to him in his calling. Perhaps it was just his own mind, but calm settled in and when the fog banks were broken by baying voices followed by faces, Aron was waiting, standing with his sword, a chill expression settled across a face that had known too many smiles, too many grimaces and too few years in the walks of life.

The invaders were Sempran – he could tell that at once, with ease. Their features were sharper, less smooth and so much more savage than any expression the Angel-stock could devise. He snarled in response to their howling, which only seemed to make them more excited. His heart sank as he registered the sheer numbers pouring through the broken barrier of fog, but what strengthened his resolve – his prayer words – came through, and he stood steady.

Lord, listen. Hear me.

They came forth, swords raised, eyes deadened to the world. Aron raised his blade, admiring the silver sheen of it as it clashed with another blade, sending sparks flying up into the air. He snarled, his sword whipping around and taking off the arm of someone who was in his way. The Vilyte screamed. White blood…

They aren\'t real.

He slashed with the blade, driving back with the wild swing, but not expecting to connect. No one was foolish enough to get hit by the feint. But they did crowd in, all of them jeering. He saw hair colors flashing back and forth. White, pale blue, dark browns, black – the vibrancy hurt his eyes. Red. Red most of all. He swung for red, trying to eliminate that target, his chosen one, driving forward with aggression.

They scattered from his way, avoiding the fallen body of their companion, still bemoaning the loss of his arm, holding the steadily bleeding stump close, muttering and shouting curses to the sky. He looked and he laughed, his sword raising up high as his weighty armor moved with him.

"Come, come and get me then, you fearsome fools!" he dared, shouting his revelry. He was on fire, incensed with the desire for life. He wanted and he loved and he lived for the moment, his world narrowed to the hiss of steel as it swung through the air and the foes before him. There was no purer world than this one he inhabited, living, as he was, with the truth of life and death laid out so carelessly before him. He could reach out, touch either one with his own hands. Life – the ones before him, he himself. He was alive. Aron was alive. His foes were alive. And then death – the sword he bore in his hand, holding it, wielding it with the deadly intent that was hidden within.

Swords don’t kill people, he remembered hearing, once upon a time, long ago and far away. People kill people. With swords, of course. But it was people – him, them. He would kill some, and then probably be killed himself. It was the way of things. He accepted it, took it for what it was. I will die here, today. It was truth, and nothing else really mattered outside of truth at the moment. Death was just another facet of life, one he had yet to thoroughly explore to its fullest extent. The visual death of a being was only one way to look at it – the question remained of what happened to a being once it was deceased. A new life beginning? Or something more sinister? Simple nothingness for an ageless eternity?

So many possibilities. Aron raised his sword again, and drove it forward, home. The redhead had ducked out of the way, but it didn’t\' matter, because his sword did connect with a body – pierced someone straight through the gut. The Vilyte screamed, its voice high and breathy like a rabbit in its death throes. Aron growled as he yanked his sword back, and then entrails began to bleed forth, staining the hands of the Vilyte as it grasped for its stomach, attempting in vain to keep its entrails inside its body. Aron laughed, raised his sword.

"Are there any who care to try me?" he screamed at them, spittle flying from his mouth in flecks the way a maddened dog sprays foam at the mouth. He yelled and he screamed and he laughed hellishly, lost in his own world where one sword stroke after another was all that mattered. There had been so many of them, all crowding together, screaming and yelling at him too, but now there were few, and even those hesitated to engage.

Dark ones, silent ones, all of them with haunted eyes that flared up with anger and hatred, but never made a move to come closer. He stared them down, feinted forward. They neither backed off nor came on. Aron ignored them finally, trusting to his senses to warn him if they moved from their positions as barrier around the arena of fog.

He got his sword up in time to deflect a blow from a loudmouthed Vilyte. The shining redhead was nowhere in sight. But this dark haired one was swearing up a storm, challenging even as Aron thrust him back forcefully using the weight of his blade and body.

"Coward!" the dark haired one screamed, coming on again, sword up at the ready. "Filthy half blood!"

Coolly, Aron swung back to meet the blade. Why were none of these rogues dressed in armor? He had to wonder at that. Even the apparent leader was attired in no more than leather boiled and sewn into parts to cover arms and chest. Leather could hardly turn the blade of a sword; he\'d proved that much already, and quite easily.

"Come show me who is the coward," Aron challenged, his sword up to bear as the dark haired one charged again. Steel rang dully, clanging as the metal lengths crashed repeatedly. Aron ducked and swerved. His attention was focused solely on this one. It was a much better swordsman than its compatriot. The one whose guts he\'d spilled.

The Vilyte kept screaming insults, almost to the point where Aron would have set down his sword and begged for death, just to keep the other from assaulting his ears any longer. Leave my poor ears out of this, he would have begged. They have done you no ills, yet you assault them so! Let them be - assault my body if you must, but not the ears. They have never hurt you, will never hurt you. Not the way my sword shall. Not the way I can.

Dodging and weaving only delayed the match. Slowly Aron became aware that the redhead was circling them, pacing around in the center of the dark silent ones, all arrayed in a circular formation. We\'re fighting in the Circle, he realized. The Circle, the god of the fighters\' worlds. It was the life and death of many of warrior, trained in the use of the weapon. Never step outside the Circle\'s boundaries – that was the first rule. Control you opponent – the second. Make your opponent misstep and go outside bounds – the challenge. There were no other rules to go with. There was nothing else to go on.

Step, attack, be vicious. Be victorious. That was what the Circle represented. This Circle was slightly larger than the one Aron had trained in, when he was in his youth. He kept his eye on the redhead even as he attacked the dark haired one. One could never be too careful where the Vilyte were concerned, after all. And so be it if he could not keep himself safe from both – he could try to, dammit!

The dark haired Vilyte lunged suddenly. Aron barely managed to escape being skewered. He dropped to the ground, rolling forward, coming up under the dark haired one\'s blades, his empty fist leading in a punch to the face. The hit knocked the other fighter down, gave Aron enough of a chance to puncture the leather armor several times with his sword, digging holes in it, cutting the body within to bits.

His senses deserted him then, narrowed even further from the battlefield to this mutilation. He didn\'t hear anything else, didn\'t see anything else but the spray of blood dampening the hard leather oddments. He neither smiled nor frowned, but was staring down then, when he had finished, and drawn away, his own clothing splattered with the stuff, leaving marks that were sure to stain.

"He\'s dead. You can stop."

Aron whirred to face the owner of the voice, sword back up. He hadn\'t been listening, hadn\'t heard –

"Put the sword down."It was the redhead, weaponless, holding up empty hands, a sign of – what, exactly? Weakness? Faith?

"No." He refused, but the tip of the weapon wavered, dipping lower, not moving of his own accord but rather of its own. He tried to hold it steadily, and even transferred the single grip to two, trying to still the muscles twitching over and over as nerves unconditioned to unmotion fired repeatedly.

"Put the sword down," the redhead said again, this time more forcefully. He was coming nearer.

Aron snarled back. "No!"

"Put the thrice damned sword down, coward!" the redhead screamed at him.

He laughed. "What? So you can rip me apart with you bare hands and call that courage? If you want to fight, I\'ll fight you, but with a sword in my hands. I won\'t be your victim, Vilyte."

"Reson."

"What?" He was startled.

"Reson, not Vilyte." The sharp tone was such that Aron paused. "Call me Reson."

Mockingly, the Angel-stock bowed, a half bow, not too low as to bring his neck within distance of breakage, but low enough to dangle the almost homage before this peculiar redhead. "I\'ll call you whatever I want, your highness. Vilyte." He spat out the breed\'s name, but it left a bitter taste behind anyway, staining his palate with unfortunate feeling.

"We have one of your own." The redhead seemed not to even have heard him. It was circling again, this time a bit closer, almost within range of sword blade. Aron turned, keeping his face to him, the sword always at the ready. "The one that we found. I think we found him…maybe he found us…" He seemed to be musing now, talking idly to himself instead of explaining anything. Aron tensed up, watching for the sign that there was going to be an attack. None came, and it left him bitterly confused. Where was the spark of life, the fight which he had come to expect? Nothing.

"We found him, I think. He came back with me – he\'s in my tent. He\'s one of yours."

One of mine? Surely they didn\'t have an Angel-stock. They might have the skin of one, or the head of one, or the dead body of one, but there was no full, living, breathing member of Ten who resided within the borders of Sempra; that much he was sure of.

"Liar."

The dark ones had vanished. Aron wondered where they had gone.

"I don\'t lie," the redhead snapped.

"Prove it!" Aron challenged, stepping back a pace, his arms thrown out wide, sword still shaking slightly in one hand. "Prove you aren\'t lying. What\'s his name? What\'s his rank? Who the hell is it that you claim to have?"

If the Vilyte could answer that, maybe there was an informational leak. Maybe – he barely dared to hope, but what if the others were right and Kavra\'s brother was still alive? What if – oh how it hurt to think of it, in the best way possible! – what if Asher was still among the living? It hardly bore thinking about. He nearly rejoiced aloud, but the possibilities were so slim, and it could be that this Vilyte was merely taunting him, using the possibility of a living member as anti-hope. But hope…still grew.

"I don\'t know his name."

Hope withered on the vine. If Asher had a friend among the Vilyte – even less than a friend – he could have sent word to them. He could have asked for a message to be delivered on his behalf. Since he hadn\'t, it left Aron to assume the worst.

"Lies!" he spat. "You don’t have one of our own. You\'d know his name if you did. You\'d know what he is." The Angel-stock turned, ready to make his way away. His sword still lay in his hand, but his hand was numb, and the cold metal of the hilt barely stayed in his grasp. If anyone had tried to remove it with brute force, it would have slipped out of his fingers with barely any resistance.

"I don\'t lie," the other protested, following close behind him, jogging to keep up. Where were those dark ones? "We have one of your own – I can describe him, if you\'d like."

Aron stayed silent. Why was this redheaded Vilyte following him? he had to wonder. Why wasn\'t it trying to kill him instead?

Apparently the redhead took silence as acceptance. "He\'s – I don\'t know, I haven\'t seen him stand. A little shorter than me, I guess. And he\'s smaller – a true Angel-stock, not one of the Vilyte. Features soft and gentle. He smirks. Ash hair –"

"What did you say?" Aron hardly dared to hope again, for hope was the weapon and the pain of a fool, but he couldn\'t help the bloom that spread of its own accord, wakening to sunlit truth the way a flower would open to true sunlight. "Say that again."

"Ash hair?"

Ash hair – Asher. Ashen pale, like the aspens in their season. Birch bark, or nearly. He used to talk about that to Kavra all the time…used to discuss it so loudly in the mess hall. He used to be here.

"What color are his eyes?" Aron demanded, whirling to face this Vilyte who knew more than he should, who filled him with hope and despair at the same time.

"You know him then." Satisfaction laced through the voice.

"Yes, I know him," Aron growled back sensing that denial would only heighten the tension. "Tell me – what color are his eyes?"

"Dark. Dark, is all I can call them."

Dark – the dark of the new moon, spread out inky black across a satin backdrop of sunless sky. No color that could possibly be used to describe. Black – too dull. Never red, because bloodlust didn\'t flow in his veins. And anything else, too bright. Grey, even charcoal – too filled with a life outside this one. Otherworldly in a manner even his dark eyes can\'t manage.

The image spread out across Aron\'s mind\'s eye. Asher in all his Commanding glory, the careless stance he\'d adopted ever since a blade had touched his hip and let him become the fighter, the warrior he had become. That ashen hair that he carried so proudly, the mark of who he was. Not salt and peppered like the hair of the eldest of the race, but a true mellowed silver, sunken without the sheen of metal, but lovely all the same. It was where his name had come from, and where they could trace him to.

"He\'s staying with me." Inflection hidden inside that voice made Aron glance up from where his gaze had drifted.

"Staying with you?" How could Asher possibly consent to stay in the same place of living as a – a Vilyte? The Commander had detested the "pure bloods" with all his being. Aron could not honestly imagine him living with one of them without reservation. "You\'re lying."

"I swear on the Father above. He\'s in my tent, and has been for the past day and a half." The redhead raised a hand above his head, solemn in oath. To swear on the Father above, the one who had abandoned them –

"I don\'t believe you. You need to pick something that I can still believe in," he informed the redhead icily.

The Vilyte cocked his head. "I thought everyone still believed in Him. Isn\'t that why we\'re fighting this still, after all these years? He left, and when He did, we all wanted Him back. We blamed each other for failings that never were –"

What is this creature saying? Failings that never were? Is it possible he thinks that – no. That\'s not possible. But what if it is? What if he thinks we never had failings, if we were all perfect, the way we were meant to be? Impossible thoughts, impossible feelings, impossible – but how could he look away from then when they were presented so tantalizingly close to him?

"Give him back. Give Asher back to us." He was pleading, he noted dimly. The notes in his voice weren\'t solid any longer. They slid up and down the scales of pitch, cracking ever so slightly, and breaking once or a dozen times. "Give Asher back. Please."

If Kavra wasn\'t mad with grief, if the others weren\'t incensed with worry, if this whole thing had just never happened – that would fix so much.

"I can\'t."

"Why not?" Aron demanded, ready to tear his hair out in frustration. "He\'s in your charge, isn\'t he?"

But the redhead was shaking his head. "He\'s in my tent, not my charge." Was that regret, remorse in the Vilyte\'s voice? Aron could hardly imagine such a thing. "I can\'t bring him to you. It\'s too risky."

"Too risky? What can you do?" he asked, a bit forlorn. He wanted to be with Asher, to be able to bring Asher back. His fight with Tenascus might have been worth it if he could do that small grace for the others. He wanted to be able to support them with a return of the young Commander.

It\'s Kavra\'s brother – for God\'s own sake, give him back!

"I can take you to him."

Take – He\'s trying to capture me, isn\'t he? He must have lured the Commander in the same way. He must have taken Asher the same way.

It was just a little detail – there had been no other captured when Asher was taken. A detail that Aron chose to ignore for the time being, but a detail of importance nonetheless. "You are crazy. I\'m not going with you."

The redhead shrugged. "I can\'t bring him to you." He seemed to be apologizing for the failure, as if that would make up for it. Aron temporarily forgot that he knew almost nothing about Asher. Asher was a Commander, was a member of the Angel-stock community. That automatically made him family if there was a chance for rescue. There was one now, and he wanted to be able to do that.

"Why not?" the chestnut haired Angel-stock demanded. "You haven\'t given me a reason. I\'m not going with you."

"Then you won\'t see him. I can\'t bring him to you." The Vilyte made as if to leave, starting off in the other direction, turning his back to Aron. It was that little movement that made Aron growl sharply.

"Get back here."

The redhead didn\'t even pause. Angered now, Aron raced after him, grabbing the Vilyte by the shoulder. Heat… They\'re warm. He wasn\'t sure why he was surprised. Perhaps because they bled snow. It was logical to assume they were freezing cold themselves, wasn\'t it? But this one wasn\'t.

"Call me Reson. Not Vilyte, not \'you\'. Reson. That\'s my name." The redhead\'s eyes locked with Aron\'s. He stared back into them, marveling at the scarlet hue echoing back out. Like flames, kidnapped and poured in liquid form into another being\'s eyes, to be held captive. He stared and stared for so long that he almost lost track of himself. Then the Vilyte – then Reson – brought him back to his life with a slight tap to the shoulder.

"Wake up. Are you coming with me or not?"

"How can he still be alive on your side?" Aron whispered. He was beyond the aggression of anger now, exhausted both mentally and physically. It hurt for him to admit it, but inside he knew that if it came to another battle, he would be done for. No prayer or miracle would save him. "He should be dead."

"He should be," Reson agreed, grimness in his voice. "I have no idea how he managed to make it across alive. Maybe Coris\' had something to do with it. He hates the barriers that have built up." A sigh escaped the redhead. "He was alive way back then, when this all first began. Just a child, mind, but he was there."



Reson couldn\'t believe he was talking to one of the Angel-stock in the middle of the no man\'s land, discussing his Song Master as if things were echoing forward from a past so long ago. He could hardly believe he\'d offered to bring this angry soul back with him, to reunite with the ashen haired creature lying in his bed, taking up Coris\' time. But the expressions that had crossed this chestnut haired Angel-stock\'s face had called up some instinct he\'d thought he\'d never had.

Apparently he\'d been mistaken.

"Coris is my Song Master," he added in. The blank look on the other\'s face convinced him that he was going to have to explain the particulars. "A Song Master is like a teacher of sorts. He teaches through ballads – story songs. Most of them he\'s written himself, which is an impressive feat. The only songs he\'s had me learn that he hasn\'t written are those by the Archangels themselves. Coris is quite a prestigious teacher to have."

The look on the Angel-stock\'s face was no closer to understanding than before. "Just forget it," the chestnut haired male replied, shaking his head. "It\'s not worth trying to explain this to me. I just need Asher back."

Asher. So that is his name. Asher. It fits him. Ashen hair, complexion that went dusky in the reaches of the night. It was fitting, and lovely a name for so interesting a character as the Angel-stock was. He nodded. "Then come with me. I can give him back to you." He didn\'t know why he was trying to persuade the other. It wouldn\'t do any good in the long run. What use could he have really?

But somehow, he felt compelled. "Come with me," he urged again. "It can\'t hurt." Of course, that was a lie. It could kill them both. All three of them. All of them and Coris. It could be so intensely painful for them all, but it would be worth it – could be worth it, couldn\'t it?

He decieded it could be, and so extended the invitation, half expecting to be turned down.

He was surprised when the words that came out of the Angel-stock\'s mouth were not words of denial, but acceptance.

"Take me to him."

"Then I will." He paused. "Follow me." Another pause. "Who are you to him?"

There was yet another pause, the third in a line, and the other\'s eyes went dark. "What am I?" the Angel-stock echoed. "Family of the strangest sort. He\'s my brother, my kin. Take me to him."

Reson nodded. A simple enough request to fill. "Come with me."



He wandered through the rest of the fog banks, picking his way along precarious paths laced with the toxic overdoses of lost civilizations. Ancient times had left their stain in the Heavens of their own accord, or so it seemed. He could smell the filt radiating up from the lower levels of life.