VI. Catharsis
- Location
- Brittany, France
- Pronouns
- He/Him
VI. Catharsis
There is a beast with a thousand legs that crawls under the earth. Where Creation bleeds, it drinks. Where the rot of the world-that-is-under-the-world seeps through to the surface, it roams. He is Ta-Sepa, the guardian of the dead: to him a thousand grieving families pray that he may protect the graves of their loved ones and soothe their hungry ghost.
With the ash of the fireplace you draw the two grey lines on your forehead, and with red turmeric paste you paint the dots of his legs around him. You are offered to the god who has failed; you dedicate yourself to the dead centipede. You embrace the inevitability that peace must be tried for, even as it is doomed.
"Dawn," Abanya says behind you. You turn to find the old man sitting up on his bed, looking out his door. He looks older than yesterday, and far more tired than when he went to sleep. "The festival is upon us."
You nod, pulling your cloak to you and wrapping it against the morning chill.
"It is a day of the gods," you say softly. "May they watch over us."
"May they watch over us," Abanya echoes.
The morning is spent in preparations, which you are not allowed to take part in - this time, thankfully, because you are an outsider rather than because of your legs. You sit on the well as you usually do, watching the people of Embercairn go about. They drag tables out of their homes and set them in a square missing one side in the central plaza, with the well at its center and a heap of wood and kindling. Benches are set before the tables on the outer side, so that none have the fire at their back; and smaller fire are lit in each home as the people prepare food enough to feed everyone. They all fast this morning, preparing for the feast at noon; it is meant to go through the whole day, until sunset when the bonfire will be lit, and the dances will begin.
It is a simple celebration, one you have seen many a time before. But to see people united in such a task, working with each other, laughing and chatting and shouting, brings warmth to your heart. You missed this from your days as a magistrate. You feel almost like you could belong.
The children are downright gleeful, of course. They are not to take part in the feast proper; they will be fed before it starts, and then allowed to roam free for the entire day, without chores or supervision, until the bonfire when they will be called for their second meal. An entire day of freedom often leads to wild games and adventures in the mountains, you are told, and smile each time one of them delays their antics to come greet you, wish you good health, and ask if you will be telling stories today.
"Perhaps tonight, little one," you say, rubbing a boy's head and sending him off to play with his friends.
Only one dares to ask about the mark on your brow. You think for a moment before saying…
"It marks a stillborn wish." You smile sadly as the child stares uncomprehending, then shrugs and leaves.
All the way to noon, the people give their thanks and their offerings. Straw dolls and wooden cut-outs in the shape of dogs, jars of rice-wine, honey-cakes, prayer strips, and all other sorts of things: they are carefully arrayed on the bonfire, so that they may burn together and send the village's prayers to its goddess. Each villager whispers a prayer as they put down their offerings before stepping away.
Only when it is all done does Abanya turn a baleful eye to the edge of the plaza.
The Adder have come. Sixteen of the students stand there, without weapons, wearing their better clothes, shuffling awkwardly as they look around the place. Only one has a firm expression, and a glare to mirror Abanya's own: Shay Grass-born, standing next to a grinning Marrow.
You weren't aware he'd agreed to come. Frankly, you'd prefer if he hadn't - or at least if Marrow had warned you. It must have been a last-minute decision.
It takes a moment for the elder to relax himself; he stands up straight, speaking loudly: "The students of the Adder are welcome to take part in our celebrations this year. Please, come forward; give thanks to she who hounds the rain and brings the harvest; take seats, and feast with us."
There are a couple of bright looks in those students who are on the younger and more reckless side, those who think little of the conflict between the dojo and the town and relish the opportunity for a feast; they hurry to the wooden pile, kneeling to give brief prayers, and take place at the table. They are followed by other, more cautious students, Shay last of all - Marrow has to nudge him forward.
"Come on," you hear him whisper, "unlike you, they don't bite."
You think at first it is a joke about the Adder's totem, but Shay's blush tells a different story and you have to repress a chuckle.
Soon nearly all of the village is gathered, save for children and those students who refused to join the celebration; more than sixty or seventy people sitting at three long tables, in front of wooden plates and bowls overflowing with food. A thousand variations on the staple crop, from plain steamed rice to rice pudding to white flatbreads, thick squash pies fragrant with the smell of cheap spices, small beer and rice wine, even roasted, glazed turkeys.
And you are invited, of course. You are seated at a place of honor at Abanya's right hand side, befitting of a guest under the law of hospitality. Young men, those who only just came of age and are no longer sent with the children to play, circle the tables to serve everyone. Rice and millet cakes are poured into your plate alongside crispy green leaves you do not recognize, and a turkey breast - it's been a long time since you ate meat that was not jerky, and your mouth waters.
Abanya rises from his seat and clears his throat.
"We are gathered here, on the eve of the Fire Season, to give our thanks to the one who watches over us, the one whose shrine overlooks our village, whose blessings feed our children. We who have no wealth, we eat, we drink, we are merry, for this is how we pray; this is how we worship. To our goddess."
"To our goddess," echo all the villagers, raising their cups of rice wine - and you find yourself echoing the word and the gesture without thinking.
There is a spark there, when you act alongside them, when you all take part in this ritual; and when you down the wine in one gulp as do all the others, you feel as if a bond, a rope of gold, unites you all. When you set down the empty cup and take your first mouthful of rice, a great peace comes upon you.
How you have missed this. These simple rituals of community, of bonding, of reverence. How you have missed being part of something greater, an act of worship that is not yours alone, that is not conducted in the darkness of the night's between-time or over your battered prayer beads. You want to smile - and yet you can't. For this joy is tinged with sorrow and bitterness; you know it must end. You know you will try to stall that end, but you have been told the way of the future.
But it is an old and powerful magic, this, and its spell is cast even upon the proud and distant Adder. As the hours go by they soften and start laughing along with the townsfolk's jokes. This is not a stern and silent banquet, quite the opposite: drink flows plenty, food is eaten voraciously, and people talk loudly to and over each other, some to their neighbours and some yelling to be heard three rows over. Neither do they stay seated for long; people get up, move, change places on the benches of stay up to have an aside, a few even circle the tables to dance in front of the unlit pyre. The more it goes on, the freer people feel, the more they drink and eat, the more merry they are. The sun slowly makes its way over the horizon and the moon appears in the still-blue sky, and people are laughing and dancing all the more.
You look, and you see. The glances exchanged. The Adder student leaning to whisper in a villager's ear. The casual chatter extended between people who could have been siblings, had they not be born so far apart. There is only one thing you are waiting for still - and you glance to the side every so often, watching Shay and Marrow seated side by side. It takes a while for the dark-eyed young man to warm up to the festivities - and yet, eventually, he does. He chuckles at a comment from his lover. He tries more of the food. He partakes of the rice wine, a little. He eats with little, careful gestures, in very small bites, like the most delicate of nobles - you find the sight peculiar and amusing. Eventually, while you seem to look away, he cranes his neck and Marrow leans down to give a peck on his lips.
They look happy. It is the best chance you'll ever have.
You look at the sky, and see the sun is nearing the mountaintop. Sunset may not be nigh, but the shadow will fall upon you soon enough.
You breathe deeply, touching Ta-Sepa's brand on your forehead, and rise.
At first no one pays you any mind. You circle the tables as two tipsy, swaying youths fall over each other laughing and go back to their seats, their dance ended. You circle the pyre, taking in the offerings, and you stand before the central table, both hands clasped on your walking stick, wooden legs firmly planted in the ground. You cannot sway. You cannot be weak.
Slowly, the chatter dies down as eyes turn to you. They watch curiously, waiting. Will you tell them a story? Do you have for adults a tale as powerful as your previous ones were to children? Is this your offering?
You tap the ground with your stick, setting your expression into that of the stern magistrate.
"Is this what you dreamed of?" you ask, and are rewarded with baffled looks. You wave your hand theatrically, showing the tables and dishes and people. "The food, the drink, the laughter, the chatter. To be together. To belong somewhere. When your master fled the heartlands, did you seek endless isolation in barren lands, or companionship?"
You turn to Shay, glaring holes into him.
"Or was it yesterday's life you dreamed of? When you walked the streets weapons in hand, a swagger in your step, confident that you were untouchable? Lording over the people of Embercairn, feeding off their stores, rewarding a slight with a blow? No friends but yourselves, no allegiance but to Mistress Nashai, adrift in a sea of hostility and busily stirring the water?"
"How dare you," Shay whispers, eyes wide.
""Look at yourselves!" you yell, raising one hand to the sky, a tempest in your voice, a sunflare in your eyes. "Look at what you could have had all this time and forsook for pride and greed! Is this what you wanted? Are these endless days of boredom, spent practicing the same strike a thousand times waiting for the mountainborn to raid the village so you can have the thrill of the fight - was it all worth it?"
You see it in their faces. The dumbstruck glares. The anger flaring and yet held back, overpowered by stupefaction. The pang, in some, of guilt. None of them can speak back. You have taken the stage and you hold it.
"Tell me, Shuri," you say, whipping about and pointing your finger at a girl of barely nineteen, bearing a serpentine crest on her black tunic. She starts visibly. "You who absconds at night on every Venus's Day, trusting in the protection of the goddess, to meet with a young boy in the rice paddies and lay together as lovers - is it worth it? Do you not wish you could hold his hand openly as you walk the streets of the village to go ask his mother for her blessing?"
"How do you know-" she starts, then clasps her hands on her mouth as she realizes what she's admitting to.
But it is a boy who answers, casting his eyes down at his feet: "My sister," he says. "She must have seen me sneak out and told no one, until…"
"I tell stories to your children," you say, leaning on your stick, "and they tell me stories in turn. Like yours, Widow Naan."
A woman of fierce beauty even in her greying age looks up at you; she is heavily pregnant, and for one of grey hair, this is considered a tremendous blessing. She curls her arm protectively around her belly.
"Five years ago you lost your husband to a wasting sickness, and ever since you have grieved - until this year; until a child was begotten unto you. And yet, none know the father."
"It is my responsibility to bear," Widow Naan says proudly, tilting up her chin.
"But why does it have to be?" you ask, vehement. "Why can Yon of the Adder School not step up and say, 'this is my child?'"
There is a number of loud gasps as people all across the tables turn to stare at one of the older students. His face is set in a dark mask, his black eyes staring at you balefully, and for a moment you think he is a man to be blamed, not pity-
Until his voice cracks and he breaks down in sobs. He has no words, but you understand.
"Let me tell you of Anua," you say, turning to a girl who's just come of age. She snaps to attention, eyes wide and frightened. "Anua desperately wants to join the Steel-Fanged Adder. Her dreams are filled with the pursuit of this beautiful art that is half dance, half battle. She dreams of learning to fight so well no one will ever push her around again - and she dreams of using that strength to protect others. I was like Anua once - but I was born to a life of privilege. When I dreamed, that dreamed was made reality. Anua does not have that good fortune. She has given up on her dream, because if she leaves her house, her mother will be short a pair of hands, and her younger brothers will go hungry. No life she could protect could be worth her family."
When you cease speaking, absolute silence falls over the plaza. Marrow's hand rests heavily on Shay's shoulder, the sickleman's eyes deep with worry for his lover, the young man a statue of coiled steel.
"Because the Adder would laugh at Shuri for wedding a peasant boy," you say. "Because Nashai would sooner kick Yun out of her dojo forever than allow him to split his time between the practice of the art and his duties as a father. Because she would never Anua to pursue less than absolute perfection, and so she would never be allowed to lend a hand to aid her family. Look. Look at what she has done to you."
Silence hangs heavily over the plaza. Only the distant shouting of children can be heard, coming from the mountains.
Then Shay Grass-born speaks up.
"Are you done?" he asks, his voice perfectly flat.
"Shay…" Marrow begins. The young man raises one hand and his companion falls quiet.
"Is this why you wanted me here?" A low, dry chuckle escapes Shay's lips. "So that I could speak up in indignation and say… what? I will indignantly say that we protect the village from mountain raids? That we take only what our protection is worth? That we are eager to welcome the village's children as pupils? Don't bother speaking - I have no doubt you spent the last few days sitting on that well coming up with answers to every point I could make. So instead, I say this," and then he slams his fists on the table so hard you think you hear the ringing of steel, and shouts proudly: "We are the Steel-Fanged Adder! What are our Three Paramount Lessons?"
A young woman stands up, stepping back from her bench with righteous fury in her eyes. "Let your blood run as cold as iron!"
A young man rises, arms wide open as if in challenge. "Shed your scales until your form reaches perfection!"
Shay's voice is ice and a hiss. "Never. Bite. Twice."
You swallow nervously, hands clutching your walking stick tightly hoping not to lose your balance at the worst possible time.
"You treat us as if we had no honor," Shay spits. "But we do. The Silver Fang's honor was a jeweled tooth, always revealing itself to that which it hoped to strike down. It died. The Steel Fang's honor is as such: obey your master. Stand by your brethrens. Lay your jaws against the throat of the world, for it will always be an enemy to you. And now you ask us to betray our master-"
"We ask no such thing!" Abanya says indignantly, shuffling his robes as he hurries to stand up as well; dozens of eyes stare at him with hope, fear and pride. "We ask you to convince her. You, her pupils! You, Shay, her most prized student! Go to her and carry our words. Our people need no longer stand apart from each other!"
Abanya's sentence ends in a cough - the old man clears his throat, shakes his head as if to gather his thoughts, and for a moment you worry he is too vulnerable for such a public demonstration; but when he straightens his back he is once again the man who by his sole presence made three students run in fright from his home.
"For the protection you have granted us," he says firmly, "we offer our gratitude. For the toll you have taken from us, we extend our forgiveness. As I stand here with the hound of rain as my witness, I swear this: if student Shuri and Asaan Rice-born so wish, I shall wed them on this day. If student Yon and Widow Naan so wish, I shall wed them on this day. If young Anua so wish, I will give of my own share to her family to make up for her leaving. All that I ask is this: do not remain strangers in our midst. Come among us: be friends and lovers and spouses and siblings and children. Let our two sides come together. Help us - work with us, that we might all be fed. You do not have to forsake all labor to practice your art. Even the greatest masters have at times been farmers, the stories tell us so a hundred times. Be of us."
You look at Shay's stormy eyes, his clenched jaw, and you do not know what you see. Anger, yes. Uncertainty? Guilt? The temptation of letting go… Of no longer spending every hour of each day working for self-perfection… You see Marrow's hand reach towards his, the fondness in the sickleman's eyes…
And then Shay kicks the table from underneath and it topples over, dozens of dishes clattering to the ground, beer and wine and water spilling in front of you, and the young man is standing in front of you with perfect, deadly calm.
You thought for a second that kick was a child's tantrum. But no.
He's clearing his line of attack towards you.
Marrow steps back, stunned. Opens his mouth - and finds nothing to say.
"You think the law of hospitality protects you so far as to insult my school," Shay says with a slight smile, "and to try to turn it against its master. It may be so, but that makes you no less a fool. The honor of the Adder is loyalty. I have nothing else to say to you."
You blink.
...he's bad at this, you realize.
His commitment is absolute. His strength is concerning. His loyalty is unshakeable. But - he has no arguments other than to harp on about loyalty and honor. Abanya himself said he hoped for the Adder to take his terms to their master, and Shay refused out of hand while suggesting that agreeing would be betraying her - even though she has not been consulted at all in the first place.
Doubt seeps into the students' minds.
"This is my offer, then," lorekeeper Abanya says wearily. "All among the Adder who choose to join us, to no longer stand apart and above but to work towards a better life together, I declare true people of Embercairn as any who was born on this land. Those who reject us, who seek to rule over us - I say stand outside of us. I call for no violence; I wish them no harm; I bring no curse. But they are not of Embercairn."
He closes his eyes, letting the weight of his words slowly work its way through everybody's minds, before opening them and speaking the deadly line:
"They do not fall under the law of hospitality."
That's it. The thing you knew was coming but wished not for. Peace offered, then rejected. Things could have gone as they were. You could have remained caught in the trap of the taboo, unable to raise a hand against the Adder and them against you, forced to let Nashai claim the Hounds. But in exchange, the village would have known peace and prosperity - and you were willing to make that trade. A magistrate must sacrifice.
But they refused.
And now no law protects-
You are falling, you realize, puzzled.
You are falling and your shoulders hit the ground hard and send a jolt of pain through your body, and you try to roll and get up but your knees kick and-
Your legs are gone.
You look up from the ground.
Your wooden legs are held tightly in a coiled steel chain, itself held by Shay's hands.
He had no weapons. How-
He hid it under his clothing, you realize. Let the tip dangle down his sleeves so that a strong blow could unfold them and strike at range. That is why he was so careful about his gestures during the feast.
He struck you the instant that followed Abanya's pronouncement. He knew this was coming.
Nashai. Nashai anticipated this.
And now you are legless and prone and he has a clear line to you and all of the Adder's students are rising and the villagers back up in fright…
Someone steps up with their back to you and you see the coiled serpent on her black tunic and you realize Shuri stands between the two of you.
And Yon comes to stand at her side.
And another. And another…
Seven of the Adder's students shield you with their bodies, eight more arrayed before them.
"This is not honor," Yon speaks with the authority of an older man, one who has been part of the Adder long before Shay was born. "This is not the way. We are students of the art, and we protect the people."
"You were all too willing to take their food until a woman struck your fancy," Shay sneers.
"And I was wrong," Yon says. "I was fooled by Nashai's words, that we had to remain pure behind our walls and not waste our strength in base labor so we could protect the village, and that the food we ate was given willingly. I could have seen it easily - but I did not want to look. Not until today."
"Fuck off, Shay," Shuri says rather more bluntly. "You'd be the first one to laugh at me for bedding a village boy, you fucking hypocrite. I'm done with this. I'm with them and I'm ready to fuck you up."
"I could take both of you with one hand behind my back," Shay says - and his eyes blink sideways as he smirks. "And I am the only one here with a weapon to boot. Those of the Adder who remain loyal can take the rest of you sorry lot."
No, you think, this is not-
"But can you take me?"
And a shadow falls upon you and you think the sun as finally set but it is simply the broad and scaly back of a simple merchant who has seen too much to stand aside, and Marrow stands before you among the rebeling students with his fists closed so tightly you can hear the talons scratch against his palms.
"Marrow. Stay out of this. You're an outsider, this is none of your-"
"I did all of this," Marrow shouts, "so you could see! Because I thought you were smart enough - good enough - to realize that you've been led on by a selfish, arrogant, petty tyrant."
And more. Behind your back the villagers have all left their benches, they stand and shout curses at the Adder and cheer on the students who stand up for them. They are not fighters, but you know that they will step up and fight, and against so many a few martial artists have no chance - but how many will be hurt? How many might die because you sparked that fever in their chests?
"Enough!"
Your roar slams through the air like a tidal wave, taking everyone off-guard, drawing all eyes to you. Silence falls.
There you are. Crippled. Meek. On the ground with no legs with which to stand, propping yourself up with your arms, knees underneath your chest, sweat making the dots of your bindi smear your forehead. Roaring still.
"I called for this," you say, breathing heavily and glowering at Shay. "There was an injustice and I worked to bring it to light and I will have no one else face the consequences. I will not have you fight your brothers and sisters of the Adder. I will not have you fight your lover, Marrow. All of you, stand aside."
"Road," Marrow says worriedly, "he took your legs, you can't fight them-"
A burst of laughter cuts him off.
"Her legs!" Shay says. "What a good joke - like you could do anything with these rusty, ill-fitting toys. Like they make you a real martial artist. Come now. You're not that stupid."
"Get closer and find out," you snarl.
"No… I don't think I will," Shay says with a shrug. "I have to go to Mistress Nashai. Tell her of the townsfolk's ingratitude." His eyes sweep his side. "You lot can handle this, right?"
"You betcha," says a woman, and you recognize her - the one you met on your first day, walking the streets as if she owned them and then coming into Abanya's house to rob you. Shay laughs, undoes the chain's noose around your legs and tosses the heavy links to her - she catches them easily and starts twirling them in her hands.
"You want your legs, O Magistrate Road of the Centipede?" Shay says wryly. "Then come and take them."
And he leans down and plants each of the wooden peg into the ground with one hard blow.
On the other side of his loyalists.
"Break her arms," he says turning his back on you, "and when she can't move, keep her waiting until Mistress Nashai gets back and decides her fate."
And he's gone. The Adder girl twirls her chain and the eight Adders close ranks. Eight against eight, one of them armed but with Marrow on your side - an even fight.
But even fights end with people broken and dead on both sides. You cannot allow it. Not when this is your fault, and you made it all happen on purpose, knowing that peace would fail.
"I did this," you whisper. "I will settle it."
"You can't possibly hope to fight them," Yon says, giving you a worried glance.
"Then I will face my fate alone."
They hesitate. Marrow gives you a long, thoughtful look, and you answer with the most confident expression you can muster. Then he nods once.
"Trust in the magistrate," he says mournfully, and steps back. The students do as well, never turning their back to their former brethrens but sparing you a few incredulous glances.
"Go," says the chain-twirling girl to one of her companions, "grab her and drag her over here."
They think you've given up. That you are surrendering yourself to protect others.
Perhaps you are. It's been so long since you drew from within - or has it? No - it's only been weeks. Perhaps months. It simply feels like a thousand years, because it is the breath of life which you have refused to inhale. Suffocating yourself out of guilt. Blinding yourself to your spark. Letting your body ache and stumble. Allowing Shay to strike you by surprise with a blow you should have easily seen coming. Why? As a self-inflicted punishment?
Child of light, she called you.
Heavy footsteps growing closer. The shadow of a man over you.
He reaches for your shoulder, casually.
"Ta-Sepa," you murmur, "forgive me for the violence I am about to inflict."
A black rose blooms on your temple.
He pauses in surprise, his hand an inch from your skin.
Your right hand blurs, lightning-flicker of violence striking the outside of his knee. A scream escapes his lips as he topples, leg limp as cloth. When his knee hits the ground you grab his shoulders, hefting yourself up and launching into the air. You soar… Your legs are gone but you have wings; you are weightless and bright, crossing three yards in an instant. Dozens of eyes watch you with stupefaction.
Your knee connects with a girl's face with a sickening crunch. The impact reverberates through your leg and screams erupt everywhere as your opponent goes down like a sack of brick and the aftershock sends you back into the air.
The leader unleashes her whirling chain in a wide, arcing stroke, a single slash across the air to catch you in the chest and knock you down. You bring one hand down as it reaches you and break its momentum, sending the chain slamming down in the dirt.
You reach down as you fall, one palm hitting the earth, and there you stand on a single raised arm, your knees folded above your waist, one hand curled to your side.
A boy with long braided hair comes at you hissing, his hands in the Snake's characteristic fang-strike: index and middle finger half extended and curled to hit with the knuckles. His hands dart at you in rapid, lunging blows, and you deflect them with your one free hand again and again, a dizzying exchange of attacks and parries until his momentum exhausts itself; he takes a step back to breathe and you coil up on your arm, then launch yourself into the air again.
Your knees slam on each side of the boy's head, thighs holding you steady over him, and you deliver three of your own fang-strikes on his defenseless head. His skull echoes like a bell and he falls.
Three down. Five to go. The spark is roaring inside your chest, turning into a bonfire. Power is flooding your limbs, pulsing with every beat of your heart.
The girl lashes out with her chain again, trusting in its reach and strength. You push on the ground with both hands, launching yourself into a summersault, and the swing goes wide beneath you. A man in his thirties, head shaven and sporting the same sleeveless tunic as Nashai, moves towards you with confidence and strength with a swift straight punch. You catch his wrist in your hand and deflect his blow, leaving his chest wide open as your leap ends in a knee-strike to his chest, knocking the breath out of him. You land in another hand-stand and as he tries to come back for another blow you punch him five times in the chest. He falls.
You were hoping that by moving fast enough between opponents you could avoid them ganging up on you, but they have wised up. Two young men step in to flank you, one aiming a sweeping kick at your face and the other readying for a fang-strike. You put both hands on the ground and push, hurling yourself above their heads. Both blows miss and you grab a handful of hair in each hand, then slam the students' heads together with such force they are too stunned to scream in pain; they stumble backwards, dazed, and you keep your grip on the shorter one's hair - then jab your knuckles in his face three times, knocking him out for the count.
He takes you down with him, of course, and you roll into the dirt trying to find your balance. The chain-wielder takes this opportunity to attack, her weapon darting through the air like a serpent of living steel; where its fangs would be is an iron weight, hard enough to break bones.
The chain is an inch from your face when you raise your forearm to strike it just behind the weight to swat it aside, but this time the girl is waiting for it; she twists her wrist and instead of being swatted aside, the chain coils around your arm, trapping it. She reels you in with a sharp tug and a shout of triumph, one hand pulling the chain and the other striking at your incoming body…
You need more power. More speed. More strength. The bonfire is blazing in your chest, each of your muscles burning with its kiss, and you call upon more and more, pushing your body far past any mortal limits until that flame is breathed out into the world for all to see. In that moment, you are one with your art. You are the Centipede.
You hit the Adder's fist with your palm, propelling yourself above her, and twist your body in mid hair to grab her shoulder and wrench the hand with which she holds the chain behind her back. There is a pop as her shoulder dislocates, her scream of triumph turning to a shriek of pain. One flex of your wrist and your arm slides out of the coil like an eel, the girl's knees hit the ground, and you grab her free hand and chain her wrists together.
You have reached past the ranks of the Adder.
Your legs are just in front of you.
One of the last students is rushing at you and you don't even look at him; he aims a knife-hand blow to your neck and you catch his hand, hurl him over your shoulder and slam his down to the ground on his back. He coughs and you strike him four times in the chest. Ribs crack. Your last blow is dealt with the palm - you hit his thorax and use him as a platform, launching yourself again. A twist and a turn…
You land perfectly, your absent limbs connecting with the wooden pegs. With a flick of your hands you lock the leather straps, and with a tug of each leg you rip them out of the ground.
You stand with flawless grace, opening your arms and breathing in.
The girl in front of you roar, finally working her way out of her own chain. The metal links clatter to the ground and she turns to you, one arm limp and the other poised like a snake about to bite; you feel the low thrum of power rising from her, the strength of her art finally reaching an apex in its fury. Steel-grey Essence slithers in her blood.
"Come," you say, inviting her with an open hand.
She takes one step faster than any human should move, jabbing two fingers at your plexus to hit a nerve cluster.
You kick high, so fast she can't even follow it, and hit her wrist mid-motion. Bones break and she stops dead in her tracks, gasping.
You kick three times at her exposed chest without your foot touching the ground once. She falls down with her eyes wide open, as if unable to comprehend what has just happened.
You put your foot down and clasp your hands, bowing in thanks.
The last Adder student stares dumbstruck at you, not even holding his guard. The fight is gone from him.
Behind him, the entirety of Embercairn is staring as well, all of them too stunned to say anything, to cheer or boo or run.
Golden light radiates from your skin, rising in sparkling tongues that makes your aura look like the writhing body of the centipede.
The mark of the Eclipse shines on your brow.
"Exalted," says the last Adder with a voice full of awe and terror.
"Go back to your master," you say, voice echoing with power, "and tell her this: I am Golden Road, bearer of the Mandate of Heaven, magistrate of all Creation, and my long-lost purpose is now clear to me. Her crimes have been witnessed and judged, and it falls to me to render the just sentence and restore the order of the world. She asked what style I practiced: I am on my way to demonstrate it first-hand. Let her use these last moments to make peace with whatever gods she worships."
"I-" the boy blurts out.
"Go."
And he goes. Tripping on his own feet, nearly falling over twice, doing a wide arc to not pass close to you, but he goes, running off towards the mountains and the shrine. To deliver your words to his wicked master.
You turn to the village. To Marrow, who watches you with wide eyes, everything he thought he knew about you suddenly thrown into disarray - or, rather, recontextualizing entirely. What does he think now? Will he fear you for what you are? Will he hate you for your lies? Will he fall on his knees in worship, preventing you from ever again treating him as a peer and a friend?
"You've been holding out on me, girl," he says.
The simplicity of the statement feels so incongruous, so contrary to your expectations, that all you can do is burst out laughing; the fit lasts several long seconds, your chest heaving with the release of tension and your halting breath, and when you are done laughing you must wipe a tear from your eyes.
Old Abanya steps forward, looking at you in wonder.
"Are you truly a chosen of the gods," he asks, "or a demon in a disguise of gold?"
Your smile turns sad.
If you had been whole, you would never have had to reveal yourself. You could have taken down these mere children with only a hint of your power. But the gods have refused you this. They have refused you peace. And now you who brought judgement to the wicked, must stand the judgement of the crowd as well.
But that is your fate, is it not? You are a magistrate and a Chosen of the Sun. You do not exist for your own sake, but for that of all the people of Creation.
Your throat is so dry.
You have to say something.
What is it that you feel?
[ ] Fear. How many times have you revealed your true nature, only for the people to turn on you in fear or hate?
[ ] Shame. You who have been chosen by the gods only to fail them, how dare you now stand wearing their mantle?
[ ] Sorrow. Why does it never stop hurting - that moment when your time among mortals come at an end, and your Exalted status changes forever how they see you?
But what do you inspire instead?
[ ] Hope. For now the people see that Heaven has not forsaken them, but sent its Chosen among them to right the wrongs that were done.
[ ] Gratitude. For now the people understand that you were never a meek vagabond, but one who watched over them from within, ready to bring them aid and justice.
[ ] Peace. For now the people see that the world was out of balance and had to be restored; justice comes after the crime; fate abides as fate must.
There is a beast with a thousand legs that crawls under the earth. Where Creation bleeds, it drinks. Where the rot of the world-that-is-under-the-world seeps through to the surface, it roams. He is Ta-Sepa, the guardian of the dead: to him a thousand grieving families pray that he may protect the graves of their loved ones and soothe their hungry ghost.
With the ash of the fireplace you draw the two grey lines on your forehead, and with red turmeric paste you paint the dots of his legs around him. You are offered to the god who has failed; you dedicate yourself to the dead centipede. You embrace the inevitability that peace must be tried for, even as it is doomed.
"Dawn," Abanya says behind you. You turn to find the old man sitting up on his bed, looking out his door. He looks older than yesterday, and far more tired than when he went to sleep. "The festival is upon us."
You nod, pulling your cloak to you and wrapping it against the morning chill.
"It is a day of the gods," you say softly. "May they watch over us."
"May they watch over us," Abanya echoes.
The morning is spent in preparations, which you are not allowed to take part in - this time, thankfully, because you are an outsider rather than because of your legs. You sit on the well as you usually do, watching the people of Embercairn go about. They drag tables out of their homes and set them in a square missing one side in the central plaza, with the well at its center and a heap of wood and kindling. Benches are set before the tables on the outer side, so that none have the fire at their back; and smaller fire are lit in each home as the people prepare food enough to feed everyone. They all fast this morning, preparing for the feast at noon; it is meant to go through the whole day, until sunset when the bonfire will be lit, and the dances will begin.
It is a simple celebration, one you have seen many a time before. But to see people united in such a task, working with each other, laughing and chatting and shouting, brings warmth to your heart. You missed this from your days as a magistrate. You feel almost like you could belong.
The children are downright gleeful, of course. They are not to take part in the feast proper; they will be fed before it starts, and then allowed to roam free for the entire day, without chores or supervision, until the bonfire when they will be called for their second meal. An entire day of freedom often leads to wild games and adventures in the mountains, you are told, and smile each time one of them delays their antics to come greet you, wish you good health, and ask if you will be telling stories today.
"Perhaps tonight, little one," you say, rubbing a boy's head and sending him off to play with his friends.
Only one dares to ask about the mark on your brow. You think for a moment before saying…
"It marks a stillborn wish." You smile sadly as the child stares uncomprehending, then shrugs and leaves.
All the way to noon, the people give their thanks and their offerings. Straw dolls and wooden cut-outs in the shape of dogs, jars of rice-wine, honey-cakes, prayer strips, and all other sorts of things: they are carefully arrayed on the bonfire, so that they may burn together and send the village's prayers to its goddess. Each villager whispers a prayer as they put down their offerings before stepping away.
Only when it is all done does Abanya turn a baleful eye to the edge of the plaza.
The Adder have come. Sixteen of the students stand there, without weapons, wearing their better clothes, shuffling awkwardly as they look around the place. Only one has a firm expression, and a glare to mirror Abanya's own: Shay Grass-born, standing next to a grinning Marrow.
You weren't aware he'd agreed to come. Frankly, you'd prefer if he hadn't - or at least if Marrow had warned you. It must have been a last-minute decision.
It takes a moment for the elder to relax himself; he stands up straight, speaking loudly: "The students of the Adder are welcome to take part in our celebrations this year. Please, come forward; give thanks to she who hounds the rain and brings the harvest; take seats, and feast with us."
There are a couple of bright looks in those students who are on the younger and more reckless side, those who think little of the conflict between the dojo and the town and relish the opportunity for a feast; they hurry to the wooden pile, kneeling to give brief prayers, and take place at the table. They are followed by other, more cautious students, Shay last of all - Marrow has to nudge him forward.
"Come on," you hear him whisper, "unlike you, they don't bite."
You think at first it is a joke about the Adder's totem, but Shay's blush tells a different story and you have to repress a chuckle.
Soon nearly all of the village is gathered, save for children and those students who refused to join the celebration; more than sixty or seventy people sitting at three long tables, in front of wooden plates and bowls overflowing with food. A thousand variations on the staple crop, from plain steamed rice to rice pudding to white flatbreads, thick squash pies fragrant with the smell of cheap spices, small beer and rice wine, even roasted, glazed turkeys.
And you are invited, of course. You are seated at a place of honor at Abanya's right hand side, befitting of a guest under the law of hospitality. Young men, those who only just came of age and are no longer sent with the children to play, circle the tables to serve everyone. Rice and millet cakes are poured into your plate alongside crispy green leaves you do not recognize, and a turkey breast - it's been a long time since you ate meat that was not jerky, and your mouth waters.
Abanya rises from his seat and clears his throat.
"We are gathered here, on the eve of the Fire Season, to give our thanks to the one who watches over us, the one whose shrine overlooks our village, whose blessings feed our children. We who have no wealth, we eat, we drink, we are merry, for this is how we pray; this is how we worship. To our goddess."
"To our goddess," echo all the villagers, raising their cups of rice wine - and you find yourself echoing the word and the gesture without thinking.
There is a spark there, when you act alongside them, when you all take part in this ritual; and when you down the wine in one gulp as do all the others, you feel as if a bond, a rope of gold, unites you all. When you set down the empty cup and take your first mouthful of rice, a great peace comes upon you.
How you have missed this. These simple rituals of community, of bonding, of reverence. How you have missed being part of something greater, an act of worship that is not yours alone, that is not conducted in the darkness of the night's between-time or over your battered prayer beads. You want to smile - and yet you can't. For this joy is tinged with sorrow and bitterness; you know it must end. You know you will try to stall that end, but you have been told the way of the future.
But it is an old and powerful magic, this, and its spell is cast even upon the proud and distant Adder. As the hours go by they soften and start laughing along with the townsfolk's jokes. This is not a stern and silent banquet, quite the opposite: drink flows plenty, food is eaten voraciously, and people talk loudly to and over each other, some to their neighbours and some yelling to be heard three rows over. Neither do they stay seated for long; people get up, move, change places on the benches of stay up to have an aside, a few even circle the tables to dance in front of the unlit pyre. The more it goes on, the freer people feel, the more they drink and eat, the more merry they are. The sun slowly makes its way over the horizon and the moon appears in the still-blue sky, and people are laughing and dancing all the more.
You look, and you see. The glances exchanged. The Adder student leaning to whisper in a villager's ear. The casual chatter extended between people who could have been siblings, had they not be born so far apart. There is only one thing you are waiting for still - and you glance to the side every so often, watching Shay and Marrow seated side by side. It takes a while for the dark-eyed young man to warm up to the festivities - and yet, eventually, he does. He chuckles at a comment from his lover. He tries more of the food. He partakes of the rice wine, a little. He eats with little, careful gestures, in very small bites, like the most delicate of nobles - you find the sight peculiar and amusing. Eventually, while you seem to look away, he cranes his neck and Marrow leans down to give a peck on his lips.
They look happy. It is the best chance you'll ever have.
You look at the sky, and see the sun is nearing the mountaintop. Sunset may not be nigh, but the shadow will fall upon you soon enough.
You breathe deeply, touching Ta-Sepa's brand on your forehead, and rise.
At first no one pays you any mind. You circle the tables as two tipsy, swaying youths fall over each other laughing and go back to their seats, their dance ended. You circle the pyre, taking in the offerings, and you stand before the central table, both hands clasped on your walking stick, wooden legs firmly planted in the ground. You cannot sway. You cannot be weak.
Slowly, the chatter dies down as eyes turn to you. They watch curiously, waiting. Will you tell them a story? Do you have for adults a tale as powerful as your previous ones were to children? Is this your offering?
You tap the ground with your stick, setting your expression into that of the stern magistrate.
"Is this what you dreamed of?" you ask, and are rewarded with baffled looks. You wave your hand theatrically, showing the tables and dishes and people. "The food, the drink, the laughter, the chatter. To be together. To belong somewhere. When your master fled the heartlands, did you seek endless isolation in barren lands, or companionship?"
You turn to Shay, glaring holes into him.
"Or was it yesterday's life you dreamed of? When you walked the streets weapons in hand, a swagger in your step, confident that you were untouchable? Lording over the people of Embercairn, feeding off their stores, rewarding a slight with a blow? No friends but yourselves, no allegiance but to Mistress Nashai, adrift in a sea of hostility and busily stirring the water?"
"How dare you," Shay whispers, eyes wide.
""Look at yourselves!" you yell, raising one hand to the sky, a tempest in your voice, a sunflare in your eyes. "Look at what you could have had all this time and forsook for pride and greed! Is this what you wanted? Are these endless days of boredom, spent practicing the same strike a thousand times waiting for the mountainborn to raid the village so you can have the thrill of the fight - was it all worth it?"
You see it in their faces. The dumbstruck glares. The anger flaring and yet held back, overpowered by stupefaction. The pang, in some, of guilt. None of them can speak back. You have taken the stage and you hold it.
"Tell me, Shuri," you say, whipping about and pointing your finger at a girl of barely nineteen, bearing a serpentine crest on her black tunic. She starts visibly. "You who absconds at night on every Venus's Day, trusting in the protection of the goddess, to meet with a young boy in the rice paddies and lay together as lovers - is it worth it? Do you not wish you could hold his hand openly as you walk the streets of the village to go ask his mother for her blessing?"
"How do you know-" she starts, then clasps her hands on her mouth as she realizes what she's admitting to.
But it is a boy who answers, casting his eyes down at his feet: "My sister," he says. "She must have seen me sneak out and told no one, until…"
"I tell stories to your children," you say, leaning on your stick, "and they tell me stories in turn. Like yours, Widow Naan."
A woman of fierce beauty even in her greying age looks up at you; she is heavily pregnant, and for one of grey hair, this is considered a tremendous blessing. She curls her arm protectively around her belly.
"Five years ago you lost your husband to a wasting sickness, and ever since you have grieved - until this year; until a child was begotten unto you. And yet, none know the father."
"It is my responsibility to bear," Widow Naan says proudly, tilting up her chin.
"But why does it have to be?" you ask, vehement. "Why can Yon of the Adder School not step up and say, 'this is my child?'"
There is a number of loud gasps as people all across the tables turn to stare at one of the older students. His face is set in a dark mask, his black eyes staring at you balefully, and for a moment you think he is a man to be blamed, not pity-
Until his voice cracks and he breaks down in sobs. He has no words, but you understand.
"Let me tell you of Anua," you say, turning to a girl who's just come of age. She snaps to attention, eyes wide and frightened. "Anua desperately wants to join the Steel-Fanged Adder. Her dreams are filled with the pursuit of this beautiful art that is half dance, half battle. She dreams of learning to fight so well no one will ever push her around again - and she dreams of using that strength to protect others. I was like Anua once - but I was born to a life of privilege. When I dreamed, that dreamed was made reality. Anua does not have that good fortune. She has given up on her dream, because if she leaves her house, her mother will be short a pair of hands, and her younger brothers will go hungry. No life she could protect could be worth her family."
When you cease speaking, absolute silence falls over the plaza. Marrow's hand rests heavily on Shay's shoulder, the sickleman's eyes deep with worry for his lover, the young man a statue of coiled steel.
"Because the Adder would laugh at Shuri for wedding a peasant boy," you say. "Because Nashai would sooner kick Yun out of her dojo forever than allow him to split his time between the practice of the art and his duties as a father. Because she would never Anua to pursue less than absolute perfection, and so she would never be allowed to lend a hand to aid her family. Look. Look at what she has done to you."
Silence hangs heavily over the plaza. Only the distant shouting of children can be heard, coming from the mountains.
Then Shay Grass-born speaks up.
"Are you done?" he asks, his voice perfectly flat.
"Shay…" Marrow begins. The young man raises one hand and his companion falls quiet.
"Is this why you wanted me here?" A low, dry chuckle escapes Shay's lips. "So that I could speak up in indignation and say… what? I will indignantly say that we protect the village from mountain raids? That we take only what our protection is worth? That we are eager to welcome the village's children as pupils? Don't bother speaking - I have no doubt you spent the last few days sitting on that well coming up with answers to every point I could make. So instead, I say this," and then he slams his fists on the table so hard you think you hear the ringing of steel, and shouts proudly: "We are the Steel-Fanged Adder! What are our Three Paramount Lessons?"
A young woman stands up, stepping back from her bench with righteous fury in her eyes. "Let your blood run as cold as iron!"
A young man rises, arms wide open as if in challenge. "Shed your scales until your form reaches perfection!"
Shay's voice is ice and a hiss. "Never. Bite. Twice."
You swallow nervously, hands clutching your walking stick tightly hoping not to lose your balance at the worst possible time.
"You treat us as if we had no honor," Shay spits. "But we do. The Silver Fang's honor was a jeweled tooth, always revealing itself to that which it hoped to strike down. It died. The Steel Fang's honor is as such: obey your master. Stand by your brethrens. Lay your jaws against the throat of the world, for it will always be an enemy to you. And now you ask us to betray our master-"
"We ask no such thing!" Abanya says indignantly, shuffling his robes as he hurries to stand up as well; dozens of eyes stare at him with hope, fear and pride. "We ask you to convince her. You, her pupils! You, Shay, her most prized student! Go to her and carry our words. Our people need no longer stand apart from each other!"
Abanya's sentence ends in a cough - the old man clears his throat, shakes his head as if to gather his thoughts, and for a moment you worry he is too vulnerable for such a public demonstration; but when he straightens his back he is once again the man who by his sole presence made three students run in fright from his home.
"For the protection you have granted us," he says firmly, "we offer our gratitude. For the toll you have taken from us, we extend our forgiveness. As I stand here with the hound of rain as my witness, I swear this: if student Shuri and Asaan Rice-born so wish, I shall wed them on this day. If student Yon and Widow Naan so wish, I shall wed them on this day. If young Anua so wish, I will give of my own share to her family to make up for her leaving. All that I ask is this: do not remain strangers in our midst. Come among us: be friends and lovers and spouses and siblings and children. Let our two sides come together. Help us - work with us, that we might all be fed. You do not have to forsake all labor to practice your art. Even the greatest masters have at times been farmers, the stories tell us so a hundred times. Be of us."
You look at Shay's stormy eyes, his clenched jaw, and you do not know what you see. Anger, yes. Uncertainty? Guilt? The temptation of letting go… Of no longer spending every hour of each day working for self-perfection… You see Marrow's hand reach towards his, the fondness in the sickleman's eyes…
And then Shay kicks the table from underneath and it topples over, dozens of dishes clattering to the ground, beer and wine and water spilling in front of you, and the young man is standing in front of you with perfect, deadly calm.
You thought for a second that kick was a child's tantrum. But no.
He's clearing his line of attack towards you.
Marrow steps back, stunned. Opens his mouth - and finds nothing to say.
"You think the law of hospitality protects you so far as to insult my school," Shay says with a slight smile, "and to try to turn it against its master. It may be so, but that makes you no less a fool. The honor of the Adder is loyalty. I have nothing else to say to you."
You blink.
...he's bad at this, you realize.
His commitment is absolute. His strength is concerning. His loyalty is unshakeable. But - he has no arguments other than to harp on about loyalty and honor. Abanya himself said he hoped for the Adder to take his terms to their master, and Shay refused out of hand while suggesting that agreeing would be betraying her - even though she has not been consulted at all in the first place.
Doubt seeps into the students' minds.
"This is my offer, then," lorekeeper Abanya says wearily. "All among the Adder who choose to join us, to no longer stand apart and above but to work towards a better life together, I declare true people of Embercairn as any who was born on this land. Those who reject us, who seek to rule over us - I say stand outside of us. I call for no violence; I wish them no harm; I bring no curse. But they are not of Embercairn."
He closes his eyes, letting the weight of his words slowly work its way through everybody's minds, before opening them and speaking the deadly line:
"They do not fall under the law of hospitality."
That's it. The thing you knew was coming but wished not for. Peace offered, then rejected. Things could have gone as they were. You could have remained caught in the trap of the taboo, unable to raise a hand against the Adder and them against you, forced to let Nashai claim the Hounds. But in exchange, the village would have known peace and prosperity - and you were willing to make that trade. A magistrate must sacrifice.
But they refused.
And now no law protects-
You are falling, you realize, puzzled.
You are falling and your shoulders hit the ground hard and send a jolt of pain through your body, and you try to roll and get up but your knees kick and-
Your legs are gone.
You look up from the ground.
Your wooden legs are held tightly in a coiled steel chain, itself held by Shay's hands.
He had no weapons. How-
He hid it under his clothing, you realize. Let the tip dangle down his sleeves so that a strong blow could unfold them and strike at range. That is why he was so careful about his gestures during the feast.
He struck you the instant that followed Abanya's pronouncement. He knew this was coming.
Nashai. Nashai anticipated this.
And now you are legless and prone and he has a clear line to you and all of the Adder's students are rising and the villagers back up in fright…
Someone steps up with their back to you and you see the coiled serpent on her black tunic and you realize Shuri stands between the two of you.
And Yon comes to stand at her side.
And another. And another…
Seven of the Adder's students shield you with their bodies, eight more arrayed before them.
"This is not honor," Yon speaks with the authority of an older man, one who has been part of the Adder long before Shay was born. "This is not the way. We are students of the art, and we protect the people."
"You were all too willing to take their food until a woman struck your fancy," Shay sneers.
"And I was wrong," Yon says. "I was fooled by Nashai's words, that we had to remain pure behind our walls and not waste our strength in base labor so we could protect the village, and that the food we ate was given willingly. I could have seen it easily - but I did not want to look. Not until today."
"Fuck off, Shay," Shuri says rather more bluntly. "You'd be the first one to laugh at me for bedding a village boy, you fucking hypocrite. I'm done with this. I'm with them and I'm ready to fuck you up."
"I could take both of you with one hand behind my back," Shay says - and his eyes blink sideways as he smirks. "And I am the only one here with a weapon to boot. Those of the Adder who remain loyal can take the rest of you sorry lot."
No, you think, this is not-
"But can you take me?"
And a shadow falls upon you and you think the sun as finally set but it is simply the broad and scaly back of a simple merchant who has seen too much to stand aside, and Marrow stands before you among the rebeling students with his fists closed so tightly you can hear the talons scratch against his palms.
"Marrow. Stay out of this. You're an outsider, this is none of your-"
"I did all of this," Marrow shouts, "so you could see! Because I thought you were smart enough - good enough - to realize that you've been led on by a selfish, arrogant, petty tyrant."
And more. Behind your back the villagers have all left their benches, they stand and shout curses at the Adder and cheer on the students who stand up for them. They are not fighters, but you know that they will step up and fight, and against so many a few martial artists have no chance - but how many will be hurt? How many might die because you sparked that fever in their chests?
"Enough!"
Your roar slams through the air like a tidal wave, taking everyone off-guard, drawing all eyes to you. Silence falls.
There you are. Crippled. Meek. On the ground with no legs with which to stand, propping yourself up with your arms, knees underneath your chest, sweat making the dots of your bindi smear your forehead. Roaring still.
"I called for this," you say, breathing heavily and glowering at Shay. "There was an injustice and I worked to bring it to light and I will have no one else face the consequences. I will not have you fight your brothers and sisters of the Adder. I will not have you fight your lover, Marrow. All of you, stand aside."
"Road," Marrow says worriedly, "he took your legs, you can't fight them-"
A burst of laughter cuts him off.
"Her legs!" Shay says. "What a good joke - like you could do anything with these rusty, ill-fitting toys. Like they make you a real martial artist. Come now. You're not that stupid."
"Get closer and find out," you snarl.
"No… I don't think I will," Shay says with a shrug. "I have to go to Mistress Nashai. Tell her of the townsfolk's ingratitude." His eyes sweep his side. "You lot can handle this, right?"
"You betcha," says a woman, and you recognize her - the one you met on your first day, walking the streets as if she owned them and then coming into Abanya's house to rob you. Shay laughs, undoes the chain's noose around your legs and tosses the heavy links to her - she catches them easily and starts twirling them in her hands.
"You want your legs, O Magistrate Road of the Centipede?" Shay says wryly. "Then come and take them."
And he leans down and plants each of the wooden peg into the ground with one hard blow.
On the other side of his loyalists.
"Break her arms," he says turning his back on you, "and when she can't move, keep her waiting until Mistress Nashai gets back and decides her fate."
And he's gone. The Adder girl twirls her chain and the eight Adders close ranks. Eight against eight, one of them armed but with Marrow on your side - an even fight.
But even fights end with people broken and dead on both sides. You cannot allow it. Not when this is your fault, and you made it all happen on purpose, knowing that peace would fail.
"I did this," you whisper. "I will settle it."
"You can't possibly hope to fight them," Yon says, giving you a worried glance.
"Then I will face my fate alone."
They hesitate. Marrow gives you a long, thoughtful look, and you answer with the most confident expression you can muster. Then he nods once.
"Trust in the magistrate," he says mournfully, and steps back. The students do as well, never turning their back to their former brethrens but sparing you a few incredulous glances.
"Go," says the chain-twirling girl to one of her companions, "grab her and drag her over here."
They think you've given up. That you are surrendering yourself to protect others.
Perhaps you are. It's been so long since you drew from within - or has it? No - it's only been weeks. Perhaps months. It simply feels like a thousand years, because it is the breath of life which you have refused to inhale. Suffocating yourself out of guilt. Blinding yourself to your spark. Letting your body ache and stumble. Allowing Shay to strike you by surprise with a blow you should have easily seen coming. Why? As a self-inflicted punishment?
Child of light, she called you.
Heavy footsteps growing closer. The shadow of a man over you.
He reaches for your shoulder, casually.
"Ta-Sepa," you murmur, "forgive me for the violence I am about to inflict."
A black rose blooms on your temple.
He pauses in surprise, his hand an inch from your skin.
Your right hand blurs, lightning-flicker of violence striking the outside of his knee. A scream escapes his lips as he topples, leg limp as cloth. When his knee hits the ground you grab his shoulders, hefting yourself up and launching into the air. You soar… Your legs are gone but you have wings; you are weightless and bright, crossing three yards in an instant. Dozens of eyes watch you with stupefaction.
Your knee connects with a girl's face with a sickening crunch. The impact reverberates through your leg and screams erupt everywhere as your opponent goes down like a sack of brick and the aftershock sends you back into the air.
The leader unleashes her whirling chain in a wide, arcing stroke, a single slash across the air to catch you in the chest and knock you down. You bring one hand down as it reaches you and break its momentum, sending the chain slamming down in the dirt.
You reach down as you fall, one palm hitting the earth, and there you stand on a single raised arm, your knees folded above your waist, one hand curled to your side.
A boy with long braided hair comes at you hissing, his hands in the Snake's characteristic fang-strike: index and middle finger half extended and curled to hit with the knuckles. His hands dart at you in rapid, lunging blows, and you deflect them with your one free hand again and again, a dizzying exchange of attacks and parries until his momentum exhausts itself; he takes a step back to breathe and you coil up on your arm, then launch yourself into the air again.
Your knees slam on each side of the boy's head, thighs holding you steady over him, and you deliver three of your own fang-strikes on his defenseless head. His skull echoes like a bell and he falls.
Three down. Five to go. The spark is roaring inside your chest, turning into a bonfire. Power is flooding your limbs, pulsing with every beat of your heart.
The girl lashes out with her chain again, trusting in its reach and strength. You push on the ground with both hands, launching yourself into a summersault, and the swing goes wide beneath you. A man in his thirties, head shaven and sporting the same sleeveless tunic as Nashai, moves towards you with confidence and strength with a swift straight punch. You catch his wrist in your hand and deflect his blow, leaving his chest wide open as your leap ends in a knee-strike to his chest, knocking the breath out of him. You land in another hand-stand and as he tries to come back for another blow you punch him five times in the chest. He falls.
You were hoping that by moving fast enough between opponents you could avoid them ganging up on you, but they have wised up. Two young men step in to flank you, one aiming a sweeping kick at your face and the other readying for a fang-strike. You put both hands on the ground and push, hurling yourself above their heads. Both blows miss and you grab a handful of hair in each hand, then slam the students' heads together with such force they are too stunned to scream in pain; they stumble backwards, dazed, and you keep your grip on the shorter one's hair - then jab your knuckles in his face three times, knocking him out for the count.
He takes you down with him, of course, and you roll into the dirt trying to find your balance. The chain-wielder takes this opportunity to attack, her weapon darting through the air like a serpent of living steel; where its fangs would be is an iron weight, hard enough to break bones.
The chain is an inch from your face when you raise your forearm to strike it just behind the weight to swat it aside, but this time the girl is waiting for it; she twists her wrist and instead of being swatted aside, the chain coils around your arm, trapping it. She reels you in with a sharp tug and a shout of triumph, one hand pulling the chain and the other striking at your incoming body…
You need more power. More speed. More strength. The bonfire is blazing in your chest, each of your muscles burning with its kiss, and you call upon more and more, pushing your body far past any mortal limits until that flame is breathed out into the world for all to see. In that moment, you are one with your art. You are the Centipede.
You hit the Adder's fist with your palm, propelling yourself above her, and twist your body in mid hair to grab her shoulder and wrench the hand with which she holds the chain behind her back. There is a pop as her shoulder dislocates, her scream of triumph turning to a shriek of pain. One flex of your wrist and your arm slides out of the coil like an eel, the girl's knees hit the ground, and you grab her free hand and chain her wrists together.
You have reached past the ranks of the Adder.
Your legs are just in front of you.
One of the last students is rushing at you and you don't even look at him; he aims a knife-hand blow to your neck and you catch his hand, hurl him over your shoulder and slam his down to the ground on his back. He coughs and you strike him four times in the chest. Ribs crack. Your last blow is dealt with the palm - you hit his thorax and use him as a platform, launching yourself again. A twist and a turn…
You land perfectly, your absent limbs connecting with the wooden pegs. With a flick of your hands you lock the leather straps, and with a tug of each leg you rip them out of the ground.
You stand with flawless grace, opening your arms and breathing in.
The girl in front of you roar, finally working her way out of her own chain. The metal links clatter to the ground and she turns to you, one arm limp and the other poised like a snake about to bite; you feel the low thrum of power rising from her, the strength of her art finally reaching an apex in its fury. Steel-grey Essence slithers in her blood.
"Come," you say, inviting her with an open hand.
She takes one step faster than any human should move, jabbing two fingers at your plexus to hit a nerve cluster.
You kick high, so fast she can't even follow it, and hit her wrist mid-motion. Bones break and she stops dead in her tracks, gasping.
You kick three times at her exposed chest without your foot touching the ground once. She falls down with her eyes wide open, as if unable to comprehend what has just happened.
You put your foot down and clasp your hands, bowing in thanks.
The last Adder student stares dumbstruck at you, not even holding his guard. The fight is gone from him.
Behind him, the entirety of Embercairn is staring as well, all of them too stunned to say anything, to cheer or boo or run.
Golden light radiates from your skin, rising in sparkling tongues that makes your aura look like the writhing body of the centipede.
The mark of the Eclipse shines on your brow.
"Exalted," says the last Adder with a voice full of awe and terror.
"Go back to your master," you say, voice echoing with power, "and tell her this: I am Golden Road, bearer of the Mandate of Heaven, magistrate of all Creation, and my long-lost purpose is now clear to me. Her crimes have been witnessed and judged, and it falls to me to render the just sentence and restore the order of the world. She asked what style I practiced: I am on my way to demonstrate it first-hand. Let her use these last moments to make peace with whatever gods she worships."
"I-" the boy blurts out.
"Go."
And he goes. Tripping on his own feet, nearly falling over twice, doing a wide arc to not pass close to you, but he goes, running off towards the mountains and the shrine. To deliver your words to his wicked master.
You turn to the village. To Marrow, who watches you with wide eyes, everything he thought he knew about you suddenly thrown into disarray - or, rather, recontextualizing entirely. What does he think now? Will he fear you for what you are? Will he hate you for your lies? Will he fall on his knees in worship, preventing you from ever again treating him as a peer and a friend?
"You've been holding out on me, girl," he says.
The simplicity of the statement feels so incongruous, so contrary to your expectations, that all you can do is burst out laughing; the fit lasts several long seconds, your chest heaving with the release of tension and your halting breath, and when you are done laughing you must wipe a tear from your eyes.
Old Abanya steps forward, looking at you in wonder.
"Are you truly a chosen of the gods," he asks, "or a demon in a disguise of gold?"
Your smile turns sad.
If you had been whole, you would never have had to reveal yourself. You could have taken down these mere children with only a hint of your power. But the gods have refused you this. They have refused you peace. And now you who brought judgement to the wicked, must stand the judgement of the crowd as well.
But that is your fate, is it not? You are a magistrate and a Chosen of the Sun. You do not exist for your own sake, but for that of all the people of Creation.
Your throat is so dry.
You have to say something.
What is it that you feel?
[ ] Fear. How many times have you revealed your true nature, only for the people to turn on you in fear or hate?
[ ] Shame. You who have been chosen by the gods only to fail them, how dare you now stand wearing their mantle?
[ ] Sorrow. Why does it never stop hurting - that moment when your time among mortals come at an end, and your Exalted status changes forever how they see you?
But what do you inspire instead?
[ ] Hope. For now the people see that Heaven has not forsaken them, but sent its Chosen among them to right the wrongs that were done.
[ ] Gratitude. For now the people understand that you were never a meek vagabond, but one who watched over them from within, ready to bring them aid and justice.
[ ] Peace. For now the people see that the world was out of balance and had to be restored; justice comes after the crime; fate abides as fate must.
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