Queen Yavara Ch. 57

I dropped to the middle of a pocket, and batted my great wings. The elves surrounding me were flung from their horses by the winds. Some were trampled by their own steeds, but others rose with swords in hand, staring disbelievingly at me. Was I a horror to them? I had made my body to be plump like a mother's and desirable like a woman's, but there was nothing in their gaze that belied anything but terror. I was almost compelled to tell them that I meant no harm, but of course, I did. I sank my toes into the soil, and called upon the trees once more.

The roots snaked from below the soil, and the snarling thorn-covered tendrils wrapped around the legs of the men surrounding me. They hacked at their legs desperately, opening deep wounds in the wood, but more roots just sprouted from the forest floor, and slithered up the elves flailing bodies. I did not want them to suffer, but I did not know how to kill quickly and painlessly with the tools at hand. I thought that perhaps destroying the brain would cause the least suffering, but the only path through the skull was the nose and eyes, and when I heard the pitch of their screeches rise as the whites of their eyes burst, I knew I had erred. I quickly burrowed into their sockets and stirred their brains to mush, hoping they had lost consciousness before they felt their minds leave them. I tried breaking the necks of the others, but the roots were borne of trees, and could only grow, not jerk and twist. I resolved to strangling them, but that was not a fast way to die at all. They writhed in their prisons of agony, begging me with their bulging eyes to show mercy. I had killed before, but that was only days after I'd taken mortal form, and empathy was a thing I did not have. I thought I had grown more wicked since that time, but I had only grown more alive. I understood now what I was stealing from these men; I was not simply returning them to earth; I was ending them! I wanted to scream 'stop' and end the bloodbath right there, but the chaos had taken on an inertia of its own, and the entire world seemed to be consumed by it.

Through the blurred filter of my weeping eyes, I saw my children become unrecognizable savages. Butterblossom, who liked to sing to the hummingbirds in the morning was screaming as she brought her wooden dagger down into a man's spurting jugular. Willowflower, who made friends with the beetles was now plunging her blade into a man's belly. Swallowsong, who painted with moss pigments was now biting into a man's face. And as they did these things, the forest turned away, disengaging from the children who had once tended it. And with the forest's solemn decision, I lost my connection with my children. In these last moments of their lives, they would know true mortal loneliness for the first time. But they knew nothing at all—nothing but the red-veiled surge of battle, nothing but the thrill of suffused terror and the glee of madness.

Come back, the forest whispered over the chaos that surrounded me, over the clash of steel and the screams of the dying.

I blinked away my tears, and stared at the elf before me. He was so wrapped in vines that he could hardly be seen, but he saw me through the snarled foliage, his bulging blue eyes filled with horror. He just wouldn't die. I understood why. I reached to the ground, and wrapped my fingers around metal for the first time in my eternal existence. It was dead. The rock that it had been borne from was melted and bastardized, twisted with heat and cold until it became something alien. Nothing within it spoke to me. Not the minerals that had passed through the soil, nor the sediment that had deposited old life onto its surface. No, it was a creation of man, and therefore it was soulless and hard, nothing but a keen edge and a deadly weight. A thing made for death should be dead, I supposed. I picked it up, raised it overhead, and shrieked at the top of my lungs before I brought the blade down. A shock ran up my arms, a sickening crack reached my ears, and hot liquid splatted me. I opened my eyes, and stared at the cloven head before me. I had killed. I had not called upon the forest, nor sent my children to do it. I, Arbor Dawnbark, had killed.

In that moment, I felt more singularity than I ever had. This was not riding the whims of nature, nor flowing with the ebb of time. I had awoken from the slumber of wood and rock to strike a discordant note in the symphony of the universe. It clanged indefinitely through the annals of time, a discontinuity that should not have been there. This was not a thing that had happened because of the tides of earth. I had done this. It would never have happened if I had not done it. This thing, this murder, this terrible, horrible, ugly, delightful thing. Yes... delightful. It was so, so delightful. The blood surged through my veins, my heart beat behind my eyeballs, and a great swell of life flowed through me. I felt my connection with the forest fade, but it did not matter. The air was so cool on my flesh, my breath was so hot in my lungs, and the world was a motion of life being lived at the very keenest of edges. A grin formed across my lips, and I charged into the fray.

I struck a man in the shoulder, and my blade bounced right off him. He recoiled, and swung at me. I yelped, and stepped backward, feeling the whisper of the blade across my chest. He charged me, and I batted my wings, and the wind knocked him and everyone behind him over. I giggled, and ran after the felled elves. I stabbed, and stabbed, and stabbed, and delighted in my victim's wrenching movements and squeaks. The blood came pouring out of each wound, filling the grotesque gashes that revealed cloven muscle and fat, spilling from their writhing bodies to soak into the dark soil. All around the forest, the clangs and screams of battle could be heard, and the tree branches, twigs, pinecones and needles that had been knocked loose by the trunks of their fallen brethren rained continuously on us all. It was an orgy of death, and I had broken my chastity.

My wings created a radius from which I could do battle, whirling about to send men flailing to their backs. My children pounced on the felled men, and punctured their faces and neck with sharpened wood. I grinned at them, and they grinned back, a horrible smile like a death grimace, eyes bulging and wild. I whirled around, and struck an elf squarely on the head with the blade. It clanged off his helm, stunning him. I had not made my body to be strong or quick, and I cursed myself in that moment as he stumbled back, and reestablished his guard. Oh, how I wanted to kill someone in a duel! I could see in his eyes that he was up to the challenge, but I was woefully not. I beat my wings, and sent him flying backward. His head struck a boulder, and he went still.

Seven elves clamored over the felled trees that divided our pocket. I rushed over to them with my wide manic smile; it almost seemed like a game! They charged me with their spears and swords, and I stopped abruptly, unfurled my wings, and—something hit me. A hollow thud shot through my chest cavity, and a great pain tore through me. I looked down. There was an arrow inside me, just above my left breast. Red blood leaked from the clean puncture wound, and spilled in rivulets down my nipple. The thrill left me. Coldness enveloped me. My pulse sounded in my ears. The motions of the world slowed. I saw the archer atop his horse reaching back for another arrow. I saw the seven men charging me. I saw my sons and daughters charge past me, expecting my wings to aid them, but I could not. Or rather, I did not. There was still strength enough in me to flex my mighty wings, but my mind was singularly focused on the intrusion of metal and wood stuck in my heart. I had never felt something so intimate, so visceral in all my life. Even greater than the thrill of murder, was this sensation. My body reacted violently, reversing all functions, moving every available resource to the sight of the catastrophe. Adrenaline was dumped into my mind, and shock locked my joints and muscles. It was though alarms were blaring in my head, but there was no instinct to compel me—only a paralyzing stillness. I was past the point of instinct. I was dying.

My daughters and sons charged the elves, then skidded to a halt when my wings did not aid them. They turned around and looked questioningly at me, then their gazes widened when they saw the haft protruding from me. They became as paralyzed as I was, staring at me with gazes filmed with horror. They realized then what I had known all along; we were all going to die. I watched them helplessly, my lips opening to scream my warning, but even as I formed the words, it was too late. The elves descended upon my children. Butterblossom was gored and sent toppling backwards. She screeched as she reached for the sword in her belly, then her scream became higher when the elf crudely tore it free, opening her soft tummy with a grotesque gash, freeing her entrails so that they unraveled in her hands. Willowflower jumped to her sister's aid, and was decapitated. Swallowsong tried to run away, but the elves were too quick. They slashed across her back, and her shoulders pinned, her chest jutted, and she fell to her knees before me. A blade appeared through her belly, and another appeared through her breast, and then the top of her head was caved in by a mace. She stared at me from the tops of her eyes as blood dribbled from her nose and mouth, and though much of her brains had burst from her ears, she still had enough to recognize me before she pitched forward into the mud.

Then they came for me. I tried to flex my wings, but I no longer had the strength. I feebly raised my sword to defend myself, and the first strike broke it from my grip. The next elf put his steel into my side, and I folded over with a cry, feeling the cold metal piecing through my soft insides until it broke through my back, lacerating my liver. A spear drove through my belly, steeling the wind from my lungs. The flesh and fat molded around the haft as the tip bored through my guts, lanced off the blade already inside me, and grinded against its brethren metal until it burst from my back. My stomach ruptured. Blood and bile vomited up my clenching esophagus, and flowed freely from my nose and mouth. Tears glazed my eyes, but I still could see the axe come down. I screamed. The heavy blade cleaved my collar, separated my shoulder, and imbedded into my left breast. My arm went limp, my cloven trapezius muscle flapped with the broken tension of sinew, and the unsupported weight of my head caused it to roll onto the unwounded side. Another blade went in me, this one from the back. It cut through my left lung, burst through my sternum, and sprayed the man before me.

"Die, bitch!" they screamed gleefully.

"Go back to hell you fucking cunt!" they laughed.

"This ain't the first time you've had five men inside you, is it Miss?" they jeered, and laughed.

I quivered for a moment, every muscle spasming, every neuron and nerve firing, my synapses ablaze with agony. They moved their blades beneath my flesh, cutting me from the inside, tearing through muscles and intestines, sawing through tendons and sinew, bursting organs. I shrieked and writhed, twisting and wrenching as the connective tissue within me was stretched and snapped. They laughed all the while, their manic grins and wide eyes filled with the thrill of my torture. They were aroused. I could see their erections through there trousers, their stiff cocks rising the higher I screamed. The axe-wielder tore his blade from my collar, and hacked off one wing, striking me once, twice, three times. My shoulders pinched back with the torment, and I thrusted my face skyward, my trembling lips uttering blood-soaked pleas. The others pushed and sawed their blade through me, cutting and tearing, opening my soft body so that the soft squishy parts spilled out. My intestines hung from my split belly, my breast swung from a loose swath of flesh, and my ruptured stomach poured acid into my opened bowels. I fell, but I did not land on my knees, for gravity caught me by the blades that were inside me, tearing me further. I was shrieking. I was devoid of all language, devoid of all thought at all but the pain. I was nothing but the pain. It ripped through me, blaring its warning at every mortal carving of my body. My hair was ripped back, my throat stretched, and the axe was raised over me. There was an arc of metal, and then I was suddenly on the ground. Wait. What was I? I was... there was... my body... my body was up there. My beautiful smooth purple flesh hand been gashed, shredded, and painted with blood, my profile had been mutilated, and... and it was headless. Where was my... oh.

Oh dear, was my last mortal thought. My vision blurred, then faded, and my mind slowly drifted to nothing.

Come back, the forest whispered, and I answered. I settled easily into the familiar place I had once occupied. The roots were my feet, the trunks were my limbs, the canopy was my hair, and... but these sensory metaphors were born from a smaller, more savage mind. No, the roots were simply the roots, the trunks were simply the trunks, and the canopy was simply thus. I was a part of it, but I was not it. I was the spirit to occupy the mind, I was the thought and the voice, I was the shepherd and the cultivator, I was the tender and the caregiver. I was the mother. Passion left me, ebbing away like dwindling coals. I grasped for it, and I kept just a little for myself. I had kept too much last time; I had let the succubus part of me take too much control of my decisions. I would not make that mistake again, nor would I make the mistake again of jettisoning her completely. She was flesh and blood, and I needed to be mindful of that side of life, for neglecting it was what had led me to this moment. Energy, serenity, peace; these were the tenants of nature, but so were fear, desire, and anger. Balance was the key, but it was obvious that one ethos was denser than the other. I had let myself be ruled in half by my passions, and my passions had taken me over. I only needed a small amount to stay connected with the fauna I shepherded.

As I adjusted myself once more to my place in the forest, I looked upon the battle that had tainted the Northern Pines. The elves had cornered the last of my children. Daisyfountain held out admirably against three men, and though she slew two of them, the third put his sword through her chest, and pinned her to the tree behind her. They were locked for a moment in an intimate embrace, and I could sense his arousal comingled with her agony. It was strange, was it not? I had felt something similar when I killed a man. When the thrill of life was at its peak, all instincts were brought to the forefront. The desire for sex overlapped with the need to kill and the fear of death, and even when I was dying in the throes of agony, so helpless and so terrified, I felt some womanly part of me open for the men taking me. And as I watched my killers laugh and toss my decapitated head amongst themselves, I did not feel a pang of rage; simply an understanding. They were terrible, but I had been terrible too. I wished them all good health and joy in their lives. As for my children... I would mourn them, yes, I would, but I would not raise another hatch for quite some time. This generation had been tainted—I had been tainted—and I would need time to reflect upon myself, and grow wiser. Perhaps Yavara had been right about me; perhaps I had let pride dull my mind. I used to think that mortal humanoids had nothing to offer me, but perhaps there was much wisdom to be gleaned from them. That being said, there was no wisdom to be found in the carnage I was witnessing. I was done with this war.

I turned my gaze away from the Northern Pines, and looked to the south. In the Maples, Rose walked beneath the autumn canopy, filling her nostrils with the sweet sap of the trees as she sought the muskier sap of a man. What wisdom could I glean from this creature that had been my daughter? I watched her saunter down the old paths, then perk her ears up, and whip her head around. Ah, she'd caught the scent of a ranging centaur. He would make a fine meal for her indeed. I smiled to myself (as much as a spirit could smile), and I found that I was oddly proud of the predatory prowess of the woman who had been my daughter. She was not an abomination like I once thought—no, she was a lioness, a tigress, a huntress of nature as graceful and spectacular as the deadliest of jungle cats. I would watch her for a long time, a silent witness to her life. She would never know me ever again, and though it was heartbreaking, it was OK. She was with me.

I felt another familiar presence, and turned my gaze northward. What I found there filled me with joy. Tulip (or Crystal as she was now known), my other lost daughter, had escaped the carnage the returning orc horde as suffered. Her daughters followed behind her, all of them accounted for, though poor Sapphire had lost an arm just below the shoulder. They struggled through the thick brush, devoid of all nymph arboreal dexterity. I chuckled to myself (as much as a spirt could chuckle), and I made their path easier by receding the bushes. They looked at each other, then looked at the sky, and smiled. Somehow, I knew they were smiling at me.

Another soul caught my attention. The presence of this creature awoke such a violent reaction within my succubus-self that I almost felt mortal again. Though she wore an illusion spell upon her flesh cast by the amputee riding in her arms, I knew her immediately for who she was. Master—or Elena, rather—was on horseback, staring out at the wreckage I'd made of my forest. She surveyed the bodies of my children, then looked up.

Arbor? she asked telepathically. How could she speak telepathically if she—ah, there was a predator within her. The vampire beneath her flesh was obvious to me now, and I could detect Adrianna's blood within it. That was certainly a mystery, but not one that I cared to solve. Elena Straltaira was a good woman, a compelling woman, a temptress and a warrior, and she was the single reason for everything that had transpired today. History would balance Yavara and Leveria, but the fulcrum of the two was Elena, who brought chaos with her where ever she went. It did not actually surprise me that she was alive. In fact, it made perfect sense, for chaos had preceded her.

Arbor? she asked again.

I did not answer. Of all the mortals in the world, Elena Straltaira was perhaps the most interesting, but I could glean no wisdom from talking with her. She was too dangerous. I turned my gaze away from her, and looked east. There was only one other mortal who was worth my undivided attention, but I would have to wait. I would not have to wait long.

YAVARA

Leveria and I were on a secluded balcony overlooking the bay. The fog precluding the Lowland navy hadn't yet crept into the waters, but we knew it was a matter of minutes, not hours. With what time we had before the fighting started, I set myself to training Leveria's magic. Zander had offered his assistance, but my unique experience with Alkandi's powers made me a more natural teacher for my sister. The old wizard just sat on a stool, and watched us. And he did look old. He looked like he'd aged a decade in a matter of hours, and though his skin hung looser on his face, he seemed to radiate with contentedness. I was almost worried for the treacherous bastard.

Leveria had a natural proclivity for telepathy, which made sense for her. She constantly tested my mind's defenses, and delighted in every counterattack I used against her. For her, getting punched in the face by her own fist was a small price to pay to unlock the secrets of mental dominance. I made sure to teach her only the basics. She was decent enough at telekinesis, though she didn't seem too interested in it. She only really wanted to learn how to fly, and since I couldn't teach her that in the short amount of time we had, she was content with being able to catch and throw objects with her mind. Inferno was something she picked up frighteningly quickly, and she was soon making advanced patterns of flame with just a twirl of her fingertips. With her transforming ability already unlocked upon her metamorphosis, she only had healing left to learn, and there was nothing—and I mean nothing—about healing that came naturally to Leveria. It seemed to be against her very nature.