Saving Hibreon Ch. 04

If you've not read the previous chapters, this one isn't going to make any sense. For more about the characters and issues Lost is dealing with in this chapter, you can check out her story, Getting Lost. I hope you're all enjoying the story so far.

Thank you RNebular for editing!

-Guinevere A. Hart

***

Lost's curiosity made her restless. There were non-corporeal presences in the palace, and she wanted to investigate. She waited until Kytia and Wy were sound asleep, then she silently got out of bed.

She picked up her Eloua-made suit from the floor and frowned at it. The suit enhanced her magical abilities, making her singularities stronger and more stable. However, it wasn't very comfortable, and she didn't need portals to hunt ghosts. She opened the closets and found a simple day gown. The former queen had been taller than Lost, so she hiked the extra length up under a pretty belt. Even if it was a bit big, Lost preferred the light and airy dress over the skin-tight suit.

She checked on Kytia and Wy once more, and she had to stifle a giggle when Kytia snorted softly in her sleep. Lost went barefoot into the dimly lit hallway. Much of the palace had gone unused by the Ay'niki who'd recently occupied it, and the closed off corridors smelled of dust. To her, the portraits hanging on the walls looked forgotten and lonely. A sad energy seeped from the stone and clung to Lost as she explored.

It was not long before, she felt something following her. A furtive flicker of light and dark just barely caught in her periphery now and again. She moved on, letting the presence trail behind her until it was ready to interact with her. They wandered the halls together like this for quite a while, mainly because Lost had nothing else to do.

The presence remained quiet until Lost came upon an unexplored part of the palace with a severe lock on the door. The ylf'nim-made lock was clearly there for a reason, and to Lost, there was only one way to find out what the reason was. She placed both hands on the lock and called on her power to open it. Before her spell was complete, she felt a cold prickle at her neck.

She heard a sibilant, "Lotuuusss."

It sounded like several people all crowded around her to whisper her old name at her. However, Lost had no time to experience the requisite spine tingle, nor even to consider the prospect of fear. A familiar voice overrode the hissing sound with, "Oh, for love of the gods, go be creepy somewhere else."

Prince Dakath had been dead for two centuries, but for Lost and her missing time, it had only been a little over a year. Joy at seeing him again (sort of) pushed aside all the dust and bleakness of the empty castle. "Dakath!" she cried as his apparition slowly materialized.

He smiled at her and said, "Sorry about those guys. They get bored. It's been a while... not sure how long, really. Time is weird on this side of dead. By the way, don't go in there." His expression became somber when he said, "You don't want to deal with that mess."

For now, Lost took her hands away from the lock. She was thrilled not only to see Dakath, but at the prospect of having a full conversation in her own language. She spoke ylf'nim, of course, and she was fluent in Eloua, and she even spoke some Sil. Barter, however, was irksomely complicated.

She asked Dakath, "What mess? Besides the obvious?"

"Hey, I look fantastic for a dead guy!" His quick smile returned while he joked with her, then he became serious again. "Look, there's a lot to talk about, but not here. No sense drawing unwanted attention. Let's go for a walk, hmm?"

She took one last glance at the lock, then she nodded to Dakath. It wasn't just the two of them on their walk, for Lost could feel the spirits of others gathered around. She quietly asked him, "You do know we're being followed, right?"

"Yeah, they're okay. Don't worry about it." Lost wasn't worried, because she sensed no threat from whatever trailed along behind them. She was curious, however, and she meant to pursue the subject further. Then Dakath turned the conversation, "So, what happened to you? How did you meet Kytia and the krys'nim? And why do they call you Lost?"

"His name is Wyfrost. His people call themselves Norrhim."

"Norrhim, huh? I thought frost giants were a myth." He thought about it for a second and commented, "I always imagined they'd be bigger, somehow."

Lost said, "When we met, my memories were gone, and I had difficulty speaking. Kytia started calling me Lost, because I suppose it's what I was, at the time."

"But you're not lost now. You and Kytia are home, where you should be. And Wyfrost seems cool. He is, isn't he? I mean, you seem to be really into the two of them, and I just want to know you're okay. They are good to you, aren't they?"

She smiled. "Yes, they're always good to me. I love what I have with Kytia and Wy."

Lost also loved what she'd had with Dakath. Their relationship had bloomed over the months they'd known each other. She had dreamt of marrying him and starting a family. She'd enjoyed casual sex before him, but with Dakath, their coupling was beyond comparison.

When they'd kissed, it was so much more than a pleasant meeting of lips. Though they were both experienced, their hands and mouths had discovered newly awakened places. Dakath had taken both her body and soul to the scared places where only love could go, to new heights of orgasmic joy. Making love with him was beyond sex, because Lost had truly been in love.

Her relationship with Kytia and Wyfrost was different, but still sacred. Sex with them had begun as a form of comfort, a way for her to feel safe when she couldn't understand the world she'd been thrown into. Over the year they'd spent together, their love had developed into a strong bond. After all the three of them had been through, Lost couldn't imagine walking away.

She could yearn for what she could've had with Dakath, but their time was over. Any dreams had been torn away from them by the hate and jealousy of others. Instead of pining, Lost chose gratitude for the opportunity just to speak with him one more time.

Dakath smiled in relief and nodded. "Good!" He mused, "Wy's not ylf'nim, but maybe this can be his home, too." Dakath trailed off on a tangent, mumbling to himself. "Poor fellow. We're going to have get some bigger furniture. Definitely need to heighten the doorways—"

"Dakath," she had to steer him back. "Can ghosts do construction?"

"No, I don't think so. Be careful, though. There's a few around here who get seriously cranky, and they can sometimes pull together enough energy for a marginally destructive tantrum."

"I think I saw some evidence of that in the grove. Did ghosts kill those Ay'niki?"

"Yeah, they did." Then his jaw firmed and his voice became uncharacteristically heavy. "We may be dead, but Raelinholm is still ours. Violating our sacred burial ground isn't something any of us would tolerate."

While they ascended the stairs to the roof, both of them were quiet. Lost had hit a rare nerve with the easy-going Dakath. She wondered at his plight and that of the ylf'nim spirits around them. It was no surprise Raelinholm was haunted, but the city seemed to have more than its fair share of ghosts. Near the top of the steps, Dakath shook off his moment of darkness. "You still haven't told me how you ran into Kytia and Wy."

She knew how it would sound before she said it, and still she felt all right telling Dakath what little she knew. He could be as facetious as she was, but he would never be truly mean to her, so she told him the truth. "The gods spat me out at Kytia's feet, because she needed me."

He issued a derisive snort, then he commented, "Yeeeaah, of course they did." They emerged on the rooftop under the afternoon sun, and he seemed to fade a little. She could still make out his facial features though, and he suggestively waggled his eyebrows at her. "I'd never spit you out."

Lost's cheeks turned pink, and she laughed with Dakath. She said, "I've missed you."

He stopped laughing and looked into her eyes. He uttered a sincere, "You have no idea." Before things became too touchy, he retreated to the outer wall. He turned to her and said, "Look!"

Lost joined the ghost of her former lover and looked out over the streets of Raelinholm. The newly freed ylf'nim had already begun to collect goods for a feast. A group were gathered around a smoke pit, and Lost leaned out to try and catch a whiff of what was on the menu. The remnant of Raelinholm was boisterous, singing and dancing. She figured half of them were drunk already.

Sharing their elation, Lost got caught up in it. A bubbling giggle of joy rose up within her, and she set it free. She spun in a quick jig and tried to take Dakath's hands, but his hands were not physically there. Her jubilant mood immediately doused, and Lost quieted.

Lost suddenly understood. Dakath was trapped. She knew he wasn't supposed to be there. Upon his death, Prince Dakath was supposed to have gone to the Sacred Empire to be with the gods in their paradise. "Dakath," she asked, "Why are you here?"

He thought about his answer, then said, "I don't know how any of this works. Honestly, before, I thought dead was just dead. You know, no Sacred Empire, no gods. It's been a little while though—"

"Two-hundred years," she offered.

"Two-hundred... fuck!" He spent a few seconds getting over the shock, then he began. "Something's happened to our world, and we can't leave. Spirits of the dead are unable to access the way into their afterlives. I think it has something to do with that day, the snake people's explosive device, our spells, and everything happening all at once."

Lost leaned back on the battlements for support. She thought of all those people, trapped between their physical life and the one waiting for them in the Sacred Empire. The sorrow of it was a crushing weight. When she was able to speak, she asked, "How do we put this right?"

Dakath's response made her feel ill. "I've discussed this at length with Sabrael, and he agrees with me. Whatever has shut down our gateway, it must have happened then. He thinks only a powerful 'oracle' can help us. I was with him in the grove when you arrived. He became quite agitated, and he swore you'd be the one with the power to fix this."

She barely heard what he'd said. "Sabrael is still here?"

"Yes, of course. He died at the same time I did... when my brother killed us."

Lost should have known Sabrael's spirit would be just as trapped as everyone else's. "Is he here now? Is he one of the people up here with us?"

"No. He can't leave the grove. Only those of us with magical abilities are able to move with some freedom. Those who don't are stuck in either the places they died or the places that meant the most to them when they lived. Even if he could be here, I don't think he'd come. I think he's afraid of you."

Lost thought for a minute, searching her heart for how she really felt about her former mentor. "Sabrael did terrible things, but his mind was sick. He was broken. If I'd only recognized it sooner, I could've convinced him to stay on Arcadia and get some help. He killed my friends, and he hurt me, but I don't hate him."

"I can pass it along, but it might be better— for both of you— if you tell him yourself. The last thing he said when we spoke was that you needed to find out what you really are before you can repair the damage. I thought it was weird, how he said it: 'what', not 'who'."

Lost thought it odd, also. She had never been anything but ylf'nim; just like Dakath and Kytia. Sabrael's personal logs were aboard the Nephilumen. They were protected, but Lost was certain she could bypass his security. As she considered breaking in, she recalled the locked door in the castle. "Dakath, what's in the locked suite?"

Dakath's expression crumpled in revulsion and anger. "Malevaur," he spat the name like it was a curse. "He killed my father and I. Then he murdered my mother and made everyone believe she'd killed herself in grief. Then there was his slaughter of hundreds of mage-crafters, all to sate his gods damned jealousy. Leave him alone. Let his damned soul rot in his own foul misery for eternity." That was truly dark for Dakath, but Lost couldn't blame him. She had a few things she'd like to say to Malevaur, herself.

Dakath's form started to fade, becoming a sort of vague shadow. Lost asked, "What's happening to you?"

"It takes energy for me to be here with you. The others have been loaning me theirs while we speak, but my time's about up." Even his voice faded with his form.

"Dakath," she reached for him, as if she could somehow stop him from disappearing. She asked one final question. "How did your brother die?"

"Ask Kytia." The words hushed like a whisper across her ear, and then Dakath was gone. She felt him take the others with him when he left. Lost was left alone with her thoughts.

She needed someone to blame for everything, and the more she considered it, the more she realized it was Malevaur. Dakath should have lived. He should have been his parents' successor, and Raelinholm should have been his. Malevaur's inquisition against magic killed the best defense against the invading forces of Ay'niki. It was because of Malevaur that all of this happened.

Hate was unfamiliar to Lost. It began as a rapidly expanding pain in her gut, and it eventually set her sternum on fire. A buzzing pressure formed like a wasp's nest behind her eyes. She would do whatever she needed to, not only to save the spirits waiting for the Sacred Empire, but to make certain Malevaur paid. She'd been well acquainted with the Infernal Tempest when she was only a small child. Malevaur was going to pay hard.

Lost turned away from the battlements, the sounds of merriment, and the smell of food wafting up from the city below. She marched back inside the palace and ran down the stairs. This new pain demanded release, and she would say her piece.

She placed her glowing hand on the locked door. She uttered one simple phrase, but in her current state, the lock threw itself from the door and clattered across the hallway. Even the surrounding wood splintered and buckled slightly.

On the other side was a suite of rooms that had once been lavishly appointed. Lit only by the light from the hall, she had to watch her step, because the place had been trashed. Furniture was tossed and broken, pillows torn, their feathery guts caught up in gauzy cobwebs. Whatever overindulged brat had thrown this tantrum, it was long over. Every richly gilded or plushy surface was covered in a thick layer of dust, and spiders had found a safe haven for nesting in each corner of the walls and furnishings.

It was summer in Raelinholm, and though the stonework kept the castle cool, it was winter cold in this suite. Lost's angry and labored breath condensed in front of her face. She rubbed her arms, wishing she'd dressed warmer.

Lost took a moment to focus on settling her riled nerves. She then used her magic to change her perception and see what her physical eyes couldn't. A strange ichor which glowed black clung and dripped from everything. It was like scat left by some sickly, giant bird.

From nowhere in particular, a voice growled at her. "I remember you, the demon's whore."

Now that she was in Malevaur's presence, the angry frenetic energy she'd felt moments before had changed. The bubbling rage cooled into a solid righteousness, a weapon with which to stab at her enemy. "Yes," she said to him, "And you will remember me for the rest of your eternity."

"Eternity is a long time," he sneered, "And I grew tired of your meddling years ago. What do you want, Infernal priestess?"

She wanted him to know what awaited him. "Greedy, prideful, and jealous," she accused. A splintered table leg flew at her face, and she put up an arm to fling it aside.

Undaunted, she let her eyes wander over the former opulence of his quarters compared to the rest of the place, and she added, "Glutton. Usurping, thieving, murdering, tyrant. You are no leader, no king. You are a parasitic worm, gorging yourself on the lives of those you oppressed."

The detritus lifted itself into the stagnant air and swirled around her, but Lost put up a simple magical shield. Malevaur's spirit screamed at her, "I am the fucking king of Raelinholm! Me! I built this city with my two hands!"

The supernatural calm washing over her only furthered Lost's resilience. "You stole the title and murdered anyone who could oppose you. You were never a real king. And you didn't build Raelinholm. It rose upon the broken backs of the people you kept in poverty. You worked them until they died, then you simply harvested more from the herd. You've never done anything that wasn't solely for yourself."

He shrieked again, and she felt an icy wind tear over her body as his noncorporeal form tried to hurt her. Lost was not at all afraid of him. She had been born of holy warriors who'd fought demons for the gods of the Sacred Empire. In response to his attack, she stated, "You are nothing."

He then tried to spew a thick glob of his black, bird-shit, ectoplasmic goo at her. She simply raised the power of her etheric shield, and the stuff slid away. She said, "I've come to share something with you. A little phrase I learned from my time among the Eloua. I don't expect you to understand it, but you've got some time yet to think it over. That which is given, is returned."

He railed, "I don't care about you and your damned demons!"

"I know," she said quietly. "But you will. When your soul is dumped in a body better suited to your villainy, and you are shredded on the battlefields of the Infernal Tempest, you'll care. When you are uploaded again and again, when you are destroyed again and again, you'll care. Now, I'm going to go. I'll just let you sit here and think about your afterlife until I come back for you. And Malevaur, I will come back for you."

Lost turned her back on him and his filth. With her head held high, she ignored the clatter of the spirit's renewed fit. Her shielding protected her lungs from the upraised cloud of dust. She could feel him follow her all the way to the door, and there he stopped as if he'd hit a wall.

Lost's suspicions were confirmed. Malevaur was incapable of leaving his rooms. She muttered absently over her shoulder, "Don't worry. I'll lock up on my way out." Then she closed the door on him.

She tucked the lock back into place, and Lost marveled at how much better she felt. She'd been so angry she'd half expected to "go Kytia" on him. She'd handled the situation so well, she contemplated going to the grove to find Sabrael. "No," she said to the empty air, "I'm not ready for that."

Lost went to the library, but the Ay'niki had left it in disarray. Pieces of their equipment lay scattered on the tables beside stacks of books and documents. She poked through a few of the stacks, and there was no reasoning in their order. Picking up a few of the alien tools, she tried to puzzle what they were for, but she gave up after a short while. Dakath's parting words had been, "Ask Kytia."

Kytia had her own reasons to hate Malevaur, and she rarely discussed him. He'd been monarch during her youth. Her parents' staunch loyalty to someone she saw as a repugnant tyrant had driven a wide wedge in Kytia's family. Captain Kytia De'Gallyn of the Royal Elite Guard, hadn't even begun her career until well after Queen Rynn had inherited the throne from her father. If Lost wanted to know how Malevaur met his physical demise, she'd have to find a way to broach the subject.