The Return to Necia

She had parted ways with Erifa days ago, the girl veering her horse toward the east and heading for the coastline. She had a task that only she could complete, and Ariadne knew that the youngest of Denetion's children would be successful in what had been assigned to her. It was a gruesome request on Fyrian's part, but Erifa had only nodded with a grim look in her eyes. Her captain's life depended on it. She would not fail.

And so she was left to push relentlessly northward to Demos, the seat of Necian power. The mare she rode churned up clods of dirt and sod in the frantic pace that the Glaucan woman had urged her to. Sweat lathered all along the muscled neck and hindquarters, but the animal did not falter once, and sensed the urgency of the situation. It was a long journey, but not impossible.

And bundled tightly in layers of course linen, held tightly, was Weeta. The poor Mer had been nestled in the saddle in front of Ariadne, and the Glaucan kept a constant, protective arm around her. Weeta hadn't said much beyond a few mumbled protests, but those were quickly drowned away by hurried murmurings and comforting words.

Over the pounding of hooves it was hard to hear if their pursuers still gave chase, but Fyrian was loathe to even look over her shoulder. She spurred her mount onward.

She prayed to Denetion Medivantis for mercy. For compassion. For the life of the Mer in her arm. For her own life. For a second chance.

Things were quickly going from bad to worse to worsest. Weeta felt like throwing up, but it was all she could do to cling to the saddle horn as Ari made the horse go as fast as it would. She didn't have the strength to throw up.

But her throat hurt like she had already puked her guts out. The Mer girl bounced like a sack of fish in front of her friend, too weak to complain or do anything but pray to the Birds that she didn't fall off.

Ariadne could sense Weeta's fears, and clutched the Mer tighter in reassurance.

"It'll be ok," she spoke loud enough for the girl to hear.

Her words weren't enough to convince her own self however, as she could feel the heat radiating from Weeta like rays from the sun. Would the Necian fire mages be able to pull the powers of the Lantern from her Mer companion? Ariadne prayed that they would, and that in a week's time at least the Mer would be free to return to her people. What happened to herself she could not even begin to guess, but in the moment she found herself, that thought was inconsequential.

What would happen would happen, and she hoped that the Satrap could find it within his graces to allow her some semblance of freedom. She would leave Necia if he so desired, and she would be thankful for the chance to keep her life. Her name - Denetion willing - would be washed clean, and she will have given Draxus what he most desired. All of her plans laid at the mercy of his true desires.



Up ahead, a wood was growing closer, and Ariadne knew that they were reaching the southwestern tip of Necia's territories.

Mountains and hills lay before them on their journey, and beyond that, Demos.

Two days later...

The outskirts of the great city-state, Demos, whirled by as if in a cyclone. Homes and people alike were nothing but a blur to the three on horseback. Ariadne still held tightly to Weeta, the poor Mer no doubt clutching with her last bits of strength to the saddle.

To her right rode Erifa, the young Glaucan girl having completed her own task. They'd met once more at the bottom of the foothills that led into Demos, and Fyrian had grimly taken the object of the young girl's search, tying it securely to the breastcollar of her own grey mare.

Kariun's head.

Wrapped in a fishnet bag, it was plain for all to see. It was a sign; a portent. It was the flag that Fyrian now thrust out before her on this, her last journey. She offered her own father to the wolves of Necia, offered them his head that had been retrieved from Denetion's waters. Would it be enough? With the Lantern as its' companion, would it truly sate the beast of a nation that she now faced?

The outlying suburbs of Demos were soon passed through, and onward into the city proper they raced. The noon sun hung nearly at its' zenith - the satraps would be in session at the Oratorium, this much she was certain of.

She spied the glimmering gold statue of Hryarthi, her spear thrust high in one hand, and the writhing snake in her other.

Reigning in her mount, she looked to Erifa, the girl's eyes cast up the hill road that lead to the Oratorium. She knew the nervousness the younger Glaucan felt; she herself felt it tenfold.

Hugging Weeta tight, Ariadne twisted so that she could gaze into the Mer's eyes.

"It is alright now; we're nearly there. They will heal you."

Weeta grumped as best as she could in the saddle, sick with fever, and sick of being on land. "The Elders are gonna kill me. Necia?"

She coughed, and moaned, "You are crazy, Ari. Crazy. Crazy crazy crazy..." her voice trailed off as Ariadne started her horse moving again. "They aren't going to forgive you. Prolly take all our heads."

Weeta felt like a limp piece of dried up seaweed.

"Crazy," she repeated to herself.

Possibly so, but the fire mages were the only ones who could safely retrieve the Lantern's power from Weeta now. Ariadne would proudly brave the dangers to her own life for the Mer.

Spurring their horses into a run, both Erifa and Fyrian began the last stretch of their long journey.

The clatter of hoofbeats on rough-hewn stone sounded as their herald as the two animals thundered up the road leading to the Oratorium. Slathered in sweat and grime, the grey mare lungeed forward with great strides, eating up the distance between them and the seat of Necian politics.

Men and women on either side cried out in surprise at the sight, and it wasn't long before the crowdsopened up to allow a path without obstacle.

So close, Ariadne clutched Weeta in a firm grip. Both horses scaled the stone steps, and Erifa gave a silent prayer to Denetion as they passed ever upwards.

Draxus sat on his stone bench as one of the other Satraps gave a discourse on taxation of the mercantile guilds. This was a point of procedure, as Draxus and no doubt the entire assembly had already made up their minds on where their vote lay. He had more pressing issues on his mind, and none more pressing than the mission that Ariadne and Mako had been dispatched upon.

So it was with some surprise that a subordinate of the Satrap approached him with discretion during the oration, and whispered of some recent news in his ear.

Ariadne had returned.

He sat upright, looking at the man.

"Here, now? In Demos?"

He would scuttle the whole proceeding, but that would be poor form. It just made him long for the duldrum to cease.

The sharp staccato hoof beats upon stonework not only answered Draxus' question, but interrupted the entire assembly as the two horses and their riders crested the last of the stairs leading into the Oratorium.

There was no stopping now. There never was.

Past grand pillars that reached skyward and into the center of the floor they rode, coming to a jarring halt. The end of their trek.

The horses, unused to being in such surroundings, danced about in nervous anticipation while their riders stared at all around them. They were a grim sight to behold, worn from days of hard riding, their horses glistening with sweat-soaked hides. With a glower, Ariadne let her gaze fall to each Satrap.

And for all to see, hanging from the leather breastplate of Ariadne's mount, was the head of Kariun Fyrian, his features distorted and twisted in death.

The massive commotion could be heard moments before the two horses so brazenly charged into the heart of the civilized world.

Regulus Varo stood to his feet in outrage.

"Guards!"

The phalanx of Oratorian Guardsmen were set upon the two horses in an instant with swords drawn, ready to cut the riders down in an instant.

"What is the meaning of this callous disrespect in the face of Necia?"

A reassuring squeeze to Weeta, and Ariadne kept her eyes to Varo. Oh how she hated that man, and free of the constraints of her previous subterfuge, the Glaucan made that fact known just by the sneer she gave to him. An instant later, her voice rang out - strong and clear.

"Silence yourself, Regulus Varo! I bring no disrespect to Necia..."

Reaching down, she deftly untied the fishnet bag with one hand before hefting it up over her head.

"... I bring Necia the head of my father, Kariun Fyrian!"

A mighty heave, and the Glaucan woman threw it over the guards' heads. It landed with a dull, sickening thud on the stone floor, rolling to a stop.

And before any could speak, she went on.

"You, Regulus Varo, who does nothing for his nation but sit and spew meaningless words; who's ego is only matched by the leagues of Denetion's waters... you will be silent!"

He was furious at her brazen disclosure of this terrible secret, but he could not let it show. He had to act as a Satrap, and it must be done now.

He rose slowly, clasping his hands together.

"Daughter of Fyrian, our hated enemy, you will address the Satrapy with respect."

He spoke with an even tone to inject levity into this chaotic scene.

"To what end do you bring the head of your slain father?"

Ariadne steeled herself. She stared long at Draxus, her features as set in stone as his looked to be. If he felt any sort of dismay over her declaration, he hid it well.

When she spoke again, she turned her eyes to the rest of those in the room.

"I am here at the behest of this man - "

She pointed to Draxus.

"Out of every one of you men here, he alone took it upon himself to shoulder the terrible burden my father placed upon you all. You think he was in Tirgatia for Dravian's simple company?! Did you think he traveled for mere niceties and trade relations?!"

Her eyes returned to Varo once more, and the Glaucan snarled her next words.

"Csephion Draxus was not enjoying wine, spices, or women. He came for me."

Once more her gaze went to those around her.

"It was he who set into motion the events that bring me here today. He pleaded for your nation when you would not, and because of his humble actions I have turned my back upon my own father. Draxus brought me here to Demos; he showed to me the wonders Necia has to offer, and he gave to me kindness that none of you would have ever had the inclination to extend. He is the man who's heart and soul are for your great country."

Reaching back, she undid the clasp of the saddlebag that held the Lantern, and lifting it out, Ariadne let the linen wrappings fall away as she held it high.

"It is because of the Phressian Satrap that Necia can once more reclaim what is rightfully hers!"

The faintest of smiles graced Draxus's expression. Her delivery was masterful. At last, he understood her aims.

Speaking again with authority, Draxus addressed Fyrian.

"Ariadne Fyrian, is the Satrapy correct in that by delivering the head of your father to us, you pledge fealty on behalf of your fold unto the Necian Aquila?"

Murmurs raced across the Oratorium at this stunning suggestion.

Her grip on the Lantern tightened imperceptibly, and she brought it to her side while in the same motion carefully dismounting. Ever mindful of Weeta, the Glaucan gave a light pat to the Mer's little leg before taking a step away.

She stepped past the Necian guardsmen, her body moving fluidly between two of them as if she passed through water.

Her green eyes remained on Draxus as she approached him slowly. Stopping before him, Fyrian extended the Lantern to him with both hands.

"I do."

His smile grew.

"Then I put it to vote."

He looked around as the Oratorium's noise level rose to a considerable din. Open squabbling broke out, and the chairman rapped his staff to bring the proceedings to order.

Draxus never strayed his eyes from Ariadne. He was now bound to the woman who had betrayed his affections.

Erifa watched all around her with a calm eye, forcing herself to breath deeply. Despite the long days of riding, she was alert. She watched Ariadne address the Satrapy, watched as her captain had thrown Kariun's head to the stone floor as if it'd been some sort of cursed thing. In the end, it had been. Her great father, Denetion, had dealt with him accordingly.

Lazily, her eyes followed Fyrian as the older Glaucan stood before the Phressian Satrap, Draxus.

Her horse pawed nervously, and Erifa's attentions went to soothe it with soft words. From her peripheral vision she spied Weeta. The Mer, still sitting astride Ariadne's mount, hunched suddenly over the saddlehorn as if some invisible hand had reached inside of her to twist and pull at her insides.

With a start, Erifa gave a yelp, scrambling to reach over and steady the Mer. Something terrible was about to happen - the whispers from Denetion said as much.

"Fyrian!!"

Her voice, no doubt lost beneath the arguments now flooding the Oratorium, was desperate.

Stupid Ari, taking her to the stupid Necians. Weeta didn't want to go, but no one asked her. She was just a stupid Mer. She was little. She could be bossed around.

And she was sick. If anything Ari should have taken her to Perl where the water witches could help her.

Ariadne squeezed her leg and walked off, leaving Weeta astride a huge horse in the middle of a bunch of shouting stupid Necians. Kick the Mer off their islands, Necians. Think they rule the whole world, Necians. She was so angry.

Unbeknownst to her, the Fire magic within Weeta's small body was already affecting those around her by transmuting her emotions to those around her. In fact, it was affecting the entire Oratorium. A junior satrap near the horses felt that he wasn't being heard, and punched an elder square in the jaw, toppling him.

Erifa rushed towards Weeta, grabbing the Mer's slim calf and trying to support her as she swayed in the saddle. She shouted something, is she shouting at me?, but it was lost in the rising din of the Oratorium. Necian satraps, usually the picture of decorum, were getting red-faced in their fury, and more than one were using their fists to get their point across.

Weeta burped.

She threw back her head and screamed, thrusting her slender arms into the air. Fire bloomed from her fingertips and rocketed skywards, the heat blistering everyone close to her.

She heard Erifa's cry - barely - but it was Weeta's scream that dominated all.

Whirling around, Ariadne watched with a sudden growing horror at the sight that met her eyes. Erifa had been knocked away, the small Glaucan tumbling from her saddle to hit the ground roughly, all while still yelling for her captain.

Fyrian ground her teeth, her lips in a grim line etching across her features, and without thinking she turned to shove the Lantern into Draxus' hands. For a split second she locked eyes with him, her green gaze suddenly filled with a level of hurt that he'd never before seen in her. Their hands touched briefly, and she mouthed a single apology before twisting back to face the Mer.

"Weeta!"

She knew the cry wouldn't be heard, but as she raced toward the horses, Fyrian couldn't help but speak her dearest friend's name as she pushed through the waves of roiling heat emanating from the Mer girl.

Draxus looked at the lantern in his hands. It was cold to the touch and no light emanated from it. It was obvious with the Mer's sudden eruption of Fire Affinity what had transpired.

"Summon the Fire Mages at once! The Mer has absorbed the Lantern's power!"

The Oratorium, it seeed, had also been affected by the outpouring of the Lantern's power. Civil discourse was fast breaking down.

Her hands burned. She'd only touched Weeta for but a moment, yet the heat from the Mer had blistered her palms and Erifa pitched away to drop from the saddle. She landed roughly, rolling on her stomach while nursing burned hands.

Erifa gasped as she staggered upward to her feet, stumbling away. Her horse had shied away, and the mount that Weeta sat astride was frozen in terror. She could smell the sickening scent of singed horse-hide. It was nauseating.

Ariadne rushed past her, but the young Glaucan continued to back away, instinctively retreating from the rolling heatwaves. Light from the flames coming from Weeta's hands illuminated the Oratorium in a horrid light, and moving to stand beside Draxus, Erifa drew her injured hands close to her body while turning away, pressing against the Phressian Satrap as if he would protect her from the onslaught.

Just when Weeta thought she would explode from the pressure and the fire that was raging inside her, she remembered ... water.

With another terrified cry, she reached out instinctively to any source of water that she could. Fountains nearby surged their marble edges, and their contents soared into the air, entering the Oratorium in a giant wave that splashed mightily over Weeta and everything near her.

She collapsed off the horse, coughing and choking, the steam rising off of her still hot enough to scald.

The sudden rush of water knocked her to her knees, but Ariadne doggedly slogged through the deluge. Her horse had fled the moment Weeta was on the ground, racing like a madbeast from hell itself through the great archway that led outside.

There was no room for thought as she skidded on her knees to stop at Weeta's crumpled figure. Steam rose like serpents to burn and scald her skin, and the Glaucan cried out as she grabbed a hold of the Mer's shoulder. Yet she persisted, feeling as the skin of her hands blistered, and without thought she moved to bundle Weeta in the sopping linen cloth that she'd been using as a cloak.

The heat began to dissipate, ever so slowly, and before long Fyrian found herself huddled in the center of the Oratorium, Weeta in her arms. Both were soaked to the bone, but the water had done well to quell the heat coming from the Mer's body.

Fyrian dipped her head so that it nearly touched Weeta's. Little Weeta.

She held on tightly, whispering soft words.

"I'm here."

There were those among the throng who held allegiance to Igneon, God of fire, and those men hurried forward to brace against the onslaught, buying time until the Mages could arrive. They worked valiantly, but the fire affinity within the lantern was no trifle, and even the Fire Academy contained it with some difficulty.

Draxus took the Glaucan girl in his refuge, drawing back from the flame as there was nothing for him to do.

Through the halo of fire that dominated the forefront of the Oratorium, Draxus could see a group of red-robed men being hurried into the building. They joined the masses against the outpouring of fire, and with their aid, it began to subside.

Huddled against Draxus, Erifa watched from behind his robes as the Fire Mages worked to calm the powers within Weeta. She gasped at the sight of Fyrian and the Mer, both drenched with the water that the Mer had called to her. Emboldened, the little Glaucan whispered words to Denetion, and she slowly came from behind Draxus to solidify her hold on the cooling liquid that had settled.

She whispered sweet, pleading words to the waters, causing them to pool around the two in the middle of the Oratorium. Anything to keep the heat and volatile fire affinities from consuming them.

She still leaned into Draxus however, not wishing to leave his presence just yet. Her hands she kept close to her chest, driving the burning sensation away into the back of her mind as she continued to call upon Denetion.

Weeta moaned, pushing Ari away as the fire mages circled in around them. Stupid Necians!

Her natural ability with water struggled against the more powerful fire magic that was raging inside her, and she was suddenly sick, throwing up the scant contents of her stomach. Weeta crabbed to the side a little, limbs jerking unevenly as she tried to move away from crouching mages, and then passed out.

What could she do?! Helplessly the Glaucan looked up at the Fire Mages that now surrounded her and the now-unconscious Weeta. Scrambling away, Fyrian scrabbled backwards across the wet stones, the water cooling her burned hands. She stumbled upwards to her feet, continuing to back away. Cradling her hands close, Fyrian suddenly found herself unable to watch, and she turned away, her eyes falling upon both Draxus and Erifa.

Fyrian stood, feeling suddenly helpless in the midst of the Necian dragon that she'd so desperately ridden to meet head on.

Her features twisted, and unable to look at the Phressian Satrap, she turned back to stare at the circle of Necian Mages surrounding Weeta.

With the pressing threat of immolation now passed, Draxus and other Satraps cautioned to the epicenter of the incident.

"This Mer woman is afflicted by the Lantern itself."

One of the mages looked puzzled at this.

"We must return her and the lantern to the Academy at once!"

Draxus nodded.

"I think the pressing emergency at present usurps decorum."

The chairman agreed, and called for a dismissal of the day's session.

Draxus gestured at one of the many hangers-on near the doorway leading outside.

"Fetch me a horse!"

He glanced back to Fyrian, hoping to steal some inflection from her expression that would lend meaning to this bizarre turn of events.