Second bingo

[hareguizer]

This one seemed to take forever, lots of ideas that didn't want to take shape on the page.

Another mix of 'verses

Prompt: Emotion Manipulation
Rating: G
Fic: Corvus Chronicles (medieval fantasy, circa 1310)

 

"I will destroy your world through war."

That was what the Afa promised him, crooned to him while he struggled through the morass of pain she was inflicting, while he tried and failed to overcome the primal revulsion at the outrages she inflicted on his flesh. It never sounded like a threat. She always voiced it like it was a precious gift.

The first time, the words had shaken him. He'd grown up with the tales of the Otherworldly Afa and the terrible cost his Order had suffered stopping their last invasion. He had seen for himself the remains of one of their formidable beasts of war, a constructed creature larger than ten men, clawed and fanged and so feared that it had been shackled even in death. He knew their magic was geared for conquest, their casting speed impossibly fast, that they feared neither Church nor demons. He knew the Afa made his own magic look like parlour tricks.

And he was in her power, where she wanted him to be, there by his own choice for the alternative was the death of all he held dear. Yes, he'd sold the world in the hope of protecting his little family for a few more years. At the time it had been a calculated gamble, for she was not fully in command of the body she had stolen. There had been a slim chance he could persuade her host to fight back. And if not, he had thought, at least by turning traitor he could hope to win her confidence, learn what she was planning, discover a way to thwart her goals and even, maybe, defeat the Afa forever.

He didn't believe that anymore. Even as he greedily learned everything she tried to teach him, embracing every cruel and painful lesson she imposed in her attempt to overcome his weakness, the part of him that squirrelled away this knowledge knew he would never use it against her. His hunger for knowledge was the only strength he had, and he had walked through fire for the chance to hear the Afa speak of her home.

A world where the mageborn ruled; not persecuted, not burned or hanged as ungodly. Where the Gifted used their abilities openly to build a fairer world instead of hiding and attacking one another. Where those like him could stand proud on the field of battle and strike down their enemies, instead of cowering behind the shields of bought soldiers. Where even God was an irrelevance, where Heaven and Hell held no sway, and death was no more than a passing inconvenience.

How he longed to see that world for himself!

He thought of the dead war beast and imagined an army of such monsters, leading the coming attack; the ranks of Afa and their warrior Fell advancing behind, exploiting the chaos the beasts caused in their enemies' ranks. He imagined his friends in the Order uniting with the Church, old enmities momentarily forgotten and all the gathered forces of Christendom at their backs. He knew they were outmatched. He knew he should feel dread for what was to come, for the loss of life and hope that would follow. He knew he should fear for himself, but he'd accepted the Afa's offer to turn traitor in full knowledge that he wouldn't outlive the bargain.

He pictured the coming war and tried to feel afraid, but all he could think of was how much stronger she was making him. How he'd laughed at the demon the Infernal Court had sent to his chambers, reading the desperation in its offers of meaningless power, knowing then that even the Adversary feared the Afa's schemes. Knowing she would topple God Himself before she would rest.

He tried to feel dread, but all he felt was this singing exultation. He didn't want to fight the Afa's army. He wanted to command it.

The Afa would purify his world through war. And he would do everything in his power to help her.

 

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 Prompt: Worst Case Scenario
Rating: PG
Fic: The Leaving Season
 

Worst case scenario

Piotr hits the ground at a dead run, stumbling at the sudden transition from two legs to four. He ploughs nose-first into the snow drifted against the walls of Nikolai's house, scrambles to his feet with ears pinned flat and his mind a white blaze of panic. Shadows loom on the snow ahead of him as he runs away from the window, and shots ring out. In his headlong flight he has just enough presence of mind to dodge out of the light.

He hears the soft thumps of other bodies landing in the snow behind him. He has a slim head start on the others of his pack, though he realizes with a pang they aren't his pack anymore. The memory of Nikolai's blood falling on the parquet floor, the sheer unexpected suddenness of the betrayal makes him run the harder. Four of the old guard dead in the time it took him to look up from lighting a cigarette. Misha didn't even waste time trying to talk him over.

Trimmed garden trees give way to wild forest around him. He can hear the harsh breath of his erstwhile comrades behind him, gaining on him as he flounders through the snow. Then a black shape rears out of the underbrush ahead and lunges at him with a snarl.

He flings his head back and teeth graze his skin, barely missing his throat. He tries to dodge but the other wolf is too close and they go down in a tangle of limbs. Gregor snaps at his face, finding himself pinned under Piotr's greater weight. His claws scrabble against Piotr's chest, snagging in fur and tearing at the flesh beneath. Piotr fights to escape but Gregor's jaws close on his muzzle and clamp down like a vice.

Fear drives him to madness. He shakes his head violently, tearing himself from Gregor's hold. His vision is hazed with blood and he only makes it a few more strides before the others are on him. A grey-furred shoulder slams into his, knocking him off his feet. He rolls, and some residual human instinct makes him lash out with his forepaws at his attacker, so the gleaming jaws darting towards his throat rake his foreleg instead. He yelps as sharp fangs sink into his thigh near the knee and hold on, though he fights and struggles, rending muscle to the bone, spilling his own blood black on the churned snow.

Piotr wakes with a start, jerking up in his seat. His hand flies to his maimed knee which is pulsing with agony. Across the train's scuffed table he catches sight of Emma regarding him with disgust.

"Pleasant dreams?" she asks, though he doubts it looked pleasant from where she was sitting. "You were twitching like a dog dreaming about rabbits."

He rubs his scarred thigh, the memory of Misha's teeth fresh in his mind. "Can you do me a favour? If I fall asleep again, kick me."

She raises her eyebrows slightly at that, and almost succeeds in hiding the smile. "Whatever," she mutters, turning to gaze out of the window again.

Piotr sighs and closes his eyes. At least he can trust her to do that much. Emma dislikes him enough to actually enjoy it.

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Prompt: History
Rating: G
Fic: Corvus Chronicles

 

The Winter after the King sacked Corvuston was hard on all the survivors. It was bad enough they'd gone from being served by a thriving young town to hiding in the ruins, dodging the King's spies. But even nature seemed to have taken against them, for the ground remained frozen even though it was well into March and the winter's snow lingered on, stubbornly refusing to melt.

Mary tutted to herself as she noticed some tracks one of her apprentice scouts had left in the frozen snow. There'd been no sign of a single soul near the ruins of Corvus for over a week, but still she took the time to brush out the prints before moving out to check her traplines. The bow she carried was more for defence than in any hope of finding game.

She followed the line of the curtain wall, letting the grey of her cloak meld her outline into the old grey stones of Corvus. Ravens circled above the burned-out towers. They were the only living eyes to mark her passing.

At the edge of the courtyard some instinct made her stop and crouch behind a fall of rubble. She reached for her bow, wary but unafraid. She had the half-formed thought that maybe a stray goat or rabbit had wandered into the yard in search of food. If it were human or anything likely to be a threat, the ravens would have warned her.

So it came as a surprise when she peeped over the mound of rubble and saw a young man standing alone in the courtyard, staring at a patch of bare ground.

He was young, barely old enough to grow a beard, and he looked thin and awkward under the plain homespun of his clothes. He had no cloak despite the chill, and from the poor fit of his tunic Mary wondered if the clothes were stolen. If they were, he'd stolen them from a beggar, but the wool hat that he wore crushed down over auburn curls was of better quality, the felt thick and dyed the rich red of dying leaves.

She watched as he stared at the ground for a long moment before kneeling to lay his bare hand against the frosty cobbles. He cocked his head as if listening to the ground, then stood again and gazed around at the ruined walls as if trying to get his bearings.

He didn't look like one of the King's spies, but Mary wasn't about to take any chances. She stayed hidden until he left.

~

"He's out there again," Hermalinda grumbled, staring out of a crack in the window covering.

Sulien looked up from the hauberk he was cleaning. "That's what, the fourth day in a row now?"

"Fifth," Hermalinda sounded bemused. "He's still fixing on that same spot. Looking about, walking about, coming back to it. Touching the damned ground like it'll tell him something." She shrugged angrily. "Please give me permission to shoot the fool before he attracts unwanted attention, Captain."

Sulien sighed. Being cooped up in the dank cellars under Corvus keep wasn't doing any of them any good, and he missed the sun. "Go bring him in for questioning. Take one of the others with you in case he tries to run."

She grinned at him brightly at that. Despite her diminutive stature, no stray vagrant was likely to outrun her. "Thank you, sir."

"I'll let the magi know we have a visitor," he called to her retreating back.

When she was gone, he set the half-cleaned chainmail aside and went over to the peep hole. The boy was kneeling on the ground in the same place as yesterday, and the day before that. His eyes were closed. There was a faint frown of concentration or irritation on his face.

Sulien frowned. Uncanny, was what it was. After six months of rain and snow, there should be no trace on the ground of the blood spilled where Kellen died.

~

Hermalinda and Jerome brought the boy in for questioning, Jerome with a hard hand grasping his arm above the elbow. He came meekly enough, his eyes huge and black as a raven's as he gazed at the faces staring at him. Faced with the gaunt and desperate remnants of the Corvus Guard, he seemed to lack the wits to be afraid.

Everyone apart from the mages had turned up to get a look at him. Sulien stepped forward in their stead.

"Who are you?" Sulien asked. "What brings you here?"

The youth's eyes flicked to him as he spoke, and a look of profound curiosity crossed his face. "Captain Sulien?" he ventured. His voice was warm and smooth, conjuring memories of hot summer afternoons lazing under trees with the low murmur of a brook nearby.

A ripple of disquiet ran through the watching guardsmen. The boy was a stranger, yet he recognised their captain. It didn't bode well. Out of the corner of his eye Sulien saw Aeron grip the hilt of his knife deliberately.

"State your name and purpose here," Sulien barked, more forcefully than he intended. The youth's lips quirked in a smile at the tone, and he sketched a formal bow, as far as Jerome's grip on his arm would allow.

"Celyn of that which was Gwynedd Forest," he answered with a hint of reproach, oblivious to the unease that provoked in everyone present.

Sulien felt his blood chill, even though he realised he'd been expecting the answer. "Kellen is dead, and Gwynedd Forest burned," he said harshly. They had buried her in the Autumn, before the ground had frozen through. The fae were like trees; they might endure for centuries beyond Man's imagining but once felled, they were gone forever.

"This I know," the boy answered, all trace of laughter vanished. "I am here to learn the how and the who of it." His eyes were chips of jet, cold and hard as stone.

Sulien shook his head. "You're too late for vengeance. The one who slew her is dead, and if it's your forest you want to avenge then you'd best turn back. It's the Afa did that, and this is the last place the Afa will come now."

The boy stared at him, puzzled. Sulien felt the discomfort of that gaze. There was too much familiarity in it, too much knowing. Though he appeared nothing like the viper- tongued Kellen, he looked at Sulien as though he were a known ally, as though the years of history belonging to the dead now belonged to him. His raven eyes held memories he'd never earned.

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Prompt: Traditions
Rating: G
Fic: Fearful Monsters
 

“Even though the worst of the winter is still to come, tonight is the longest night. From here on, every day will be a little brighter than the last.”

 

 

Elsie came to collect Timothy at the Parkinsons’ farm after he’d finished his chores. The late December afternoon was bright but icy, and Elsie was rosy-nosed and wrapped up warmly in handknitted woollens, a far cry from the tough fighter-girl image she liked to project.

“All done?” she asked him as he came out to meet her at the farm gate. She stamped her feet and punched her mittened hands, fist into palm, as if that would keep her warm.

He nodded, hefting the bag that carried his overnight things and a small cloth-wrapped bottle of sloe gin Mrs Parkinson had packed as a Christmas gift to the girls.

“Come on then,” she said with a jerk of her head. “Amber’s got clinic duty today, but she should be home in a bit.”

In the few months he’d been living on the island, he’d enjoyed good food and regular meals with the Parkinsons, and thanks to the work around the farm and Elsie’s training he felt stronger and happier than he ever had in Newtown. He was in the middle of a growth spurt as well; as he walked along the lane with Elsie he was abashed and pleased to notice he was now nearly the same height as her.

“So what do they do this time of year in Newtown?” Elsie asked. Timothy shrugged. He didn’t much enjoy talking about his old home.

“Oh, the usual stuff. For Christmas everyone would gather in the chapel for a sermon and then they’d lay out tables and have a feast. There’d be bacon and hams, and Mrs Patrick would make these upside-down cakes with canned peaches.” He fell silent, remembering the gutted, dead shell of the settlement Newtown had used to get those hams from. He’d barely thought about the people of Newtown since he’d made it to the island.

“That must have been something to look forward to,” Elsie said without much feeling.

Timothy said nothing. He was remembering back to when he had looked forward to Christmas, years ago, before the Change. He’d been six years old, and time had moved so slowly back then. His father had been away on business for what seemed like forever. He’d been so impatient for Christmas, knowing that his Da would be home at last. “When’s Da coming home?” he’d ask his Mam, and she would always reply, “Soon, he’ll be home for Christmas.”

That excitement had lasted until Christmas morning, when his Mam had come downstairs alone and he’d learned then that adults lied.

The cottage that Elsie shared with Amberlin still felt like home to Tim, and as Elsie pushed open the door a welcoming rush of warm air carried the delicious smell of cooking to him. He let out a groan of pleasure at the scent.

Elsie grinned, taking it as a compliment. “I hope you like pigeon casserole, Tim,” she said, knowing full well he’d devour the whole pot if they let him. “Go and put your bag in the back room, and then you can help me set the table.”

These were familiar rituals, comfortable reminders of Tim’s first weeks on Sanctuary when the back room had been his bedroom, the setting of the table the first task he’d been allowed to do while his feet were healing. While he busied himself with them, Elsie set plates to warm and cut bread.

“The Parkinsons are having a tree, but they’re not going to put it up until Christmas Eve,” Tim chatted. “Mr Parkinson hasn’t even cut it yet, though he’s marked the one he wants. We’ll spend the day decorating it. It’ll be strange, having a tree again. We had none of that in Newtown.” He thought for a moment. “Is that the tradition here, to wait until it’s practically Christmas before putting up decorations?”

“Everyone here makes their own traditions,” Elsie said softly. “Some people like the big get-togethers, singing and playing games. We always preferred a quieter way of marking the turning of the year.”

Tim laid down the cutlery gently, so it wouldn’t make a noise. “Thank you for inviting me,” he said awkwardly. The girls were five or six years older than he was, but they were the first friends he’d made here. They didn’t have to take care of him, and he was touched that they still wanted him around.

Elsie gave him an odd, uncertain smile, and then the door was opening and Amber came in, bringing a swirl of frosty air and cheer with her.

 

The casserole was as delicious as it smelled, meaty and rich, and followed by the extravagant indulgence that was Amber’s own recipe cheesecake, topped with bottled raspberries from the summer. Tim remembered the bottle of sloe gin Mrs Parkinson had given him, and Elsie wasted no time in opening it. They drank it from glasses barely bigger than thimbles, Elsie grinning conspiratorially as she filled Tim’s glass, while Amber tried and failed to look disapproving. The drink was fragrant and headily sweet, and warmed Tim from head to toes.

“If he drinks any more, he’ll never stay awake to greet the sunrise,” Amber chided when Elsie filled his tiny glass a second time. Despite her words, she was sleepy-eyed herself, tired from a day of working in the clinic, but there was a smile lingering on her lips as if this was exactly where she wanted to be. She was curled up on the sofa while Elsie and Tim sat on the floor in front of the fire. Darkness had fallen without them noticing.

“That would be sad,” Elsie agreed, and stoppered the little bottle and put it aside. She reached under the sofa and drew out two cloth-wrapped bundles. Amber shifted into a more attentive position as she laid them on the floor between them.

“Here, Tim, this is for you.” Elsie placed a small wrapped box in his hands, and gestured to him to open it.

“But it’s not Christmas yet,” he protested.

“That’s alright. It’s not really a Christmas present.” She winked at him. “You can open it now. In fact, you should.”

Tim untied the simple knot that held the fabric in place, revealing a plain brushed steel case. Inside was a woodsman’s knife with a walnut-burl handle so polished that it almost glowed in the light from the fire. Tim drew it out of its leather sheath, admiring the strong, serviceable blade. It was a knife even the Hunter could admire.

“For the journey ahead,” Elsie told him, and there was a weight behind her words as she said it.

She lifted the second bundle. “And this is for you,” she said more gently, laying the bundle in Amber’s hands.

The wrapping came apart to reveal dozens of tiny boxes of peppermints. Timothy recognised them instantly as the unwanted sweets he’d traded Elsie in return for her training him how to use his gift, but Elsie shot him a warning look that dried up anything he’d been about to say. Amber was delighted, demanding to know where Elsie had found them and just as quickly deciding she didn’t want to know.

“Thank you,” she said, and kissed Elsie’s brow.

“I haven’t got anything for you,” Tim admitted, stricken. He’d never had anyone to give gifts to before, and he wanted to.

But they both just smiled at him, Elsie easy and relaxed and Amber with kind sympathy in her eyes. “It’s alright, Tim. Elsie gets to give presents because she goes to the mainland on missions. She gets the opportunity. We get to be here when she comes back.”

Tim subsided, realising how much danger Elsie must have faced in the course of Professor Severn’s missions. And in between dodging Terat she found the time to look for a good knife for Tim. Because she’d known he’d need it, if he was going with the Hunter on his own mission. He looked at the knife in his hand.

Amber stifled a yawn. “Oh. I don’t think I’m going to be able to stay awake all night.”

“Don’t worry,” Elsie answered, “I’ll keep watch for both of you.”

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Prompt: Artificial Beings
Rating: G
Fic: Tritan City-verse
 

Dawnlight spills over the rim of the world in a sudden flood, like forgiveness, like revelation. It paints the ruffled pewter sea with palest gold, laps the peaks of eroded mountains. In the stories of this world, these mountains mark the end of the world of the living. They are a place of passing on; a place of mourning.

In the lap of the mountains Lanash sits, his breathing slowed to a tidal whisper. The sunlight warms his skin distantly; he pushes the awareness aside and concentrates on following the trail within. There is a hole in the world where reason used to be; he dives, lungs empty as a whale’s, hunting the thin thread that is all that remains of the bond that ties him to those he has lost.

The dead are not dead while enough will still remains. Rannon taught him that, meaning only to comfort; he who had the power to call those lost beyond the borders of the flesh. Lanash has no such talent, would not heed Rannon’s warnings that it was too soon to attempt to call them back, would not take no or wait for an answer. He needs no special gift to find his family. He has the ties of blood and shared life to draw on. It leads him now, ever downwards and in, further and further from the light.

The silver thread thins the deeper he goes. It attenuates to a hair’s breadth then a wisp of gossamer then nothing at all, nothing his other senses can grasp, a faint scent on the wind that’s there one moment then gone the next. Rage threatens his calm, rising up from nowhere - his last defence against the despair that waits to swallow him should he fail. He will not give up. He lashes out with all that he is, striking blindly against the nothingness that envelops him, and the darkness gives the barest degree.

He stills. The fugitive sense of his dead siblings teases the edges of his awareness, like a taste of blood in the water vanishing downstream. He begins to follow, becoming conscious as he does so of the faintest whisper of a current drawing him on.

He does not look back to wonder how he will return. The silver trail he followed has long since vanished in the blackness of this non-place. He goes on, without a thought for the empty flesh he is leaving behind.

The current is stronger, tugging now at his heels like a friendly brook. Starved of stimuli, his mind fills the darkness with the soft chuckle of flowing water, the scent of rain and green growing things. He knows it is just self-spawned illusion, but after the gnawing emptiness it comforts him.

More gradual than the dawn in the place he left behind, his surrounding resolve into false-light. Weakly at first, no more than a suggestion of rippling water where his spirit-self walks, the light glimmers, expands its reach, until after a timeless age Lanash finds himself walking in the centre of a broad, shallow river, its far banks indistinct and lost in mist. Behind and ahead of him the mist stretches in a grey, blank wall. Only the current gives him direction.

He follows the river until he notices it is getting gradually deeper. Something tugs at his awareness, a memory long forgotten, or not his memory at all. Some shared echo of another’s experience. He has been among the mind-blind for so long, sharing only his brothers’ and sister’s thoughts and memories, that he has forgotten there was a vaster well of knowledge for him to draw on.

He reaches for it now, but even with all his barriers gone he cannot hear the chorus of his kind this far down. Still the echo of memory tugs at him, warning him, urging him to stop.

It’s harder than he expects. He tries to halt, to turn, to simply slow his passage through the river, but the imaginary water tugs him on, feet slipping on the water-smoothed stones. It takes an exerted effort of will to drag himself to a stop, and even then his limbs tremble with the effort of holding position. The water laps no higher than his shins, pulling him inexorably towards the wall of mist.

He knows where this river goes, what sea it empties into, what greater depths wait to swallow him ahead. And he knows with calm certainty that he will find his lost siblings downstream, though how far the current has taken them, whether they have fought it or travelled with it, he cannot guess. Rannon warned him he was not strong enough to try this. But he is Astares. These waters have no power to hold him.

He leaps, stretching forward into a run. The water is almost insubstantial around him, yielding instantly to his speed. He must find them before the river ends. When the waters grow to deep for running, he swims, shaping his spirit-self to drive through the waters of the river. The soft chuckle of water has become a roar, the currents turbulent and solid. It feels as though they pass through a gorge, but the scent of land and forest is gone.

Then there is a moment of plunging, heart-shocking weightlessness, and the pull of the current fades to nothing.

Lanash drifts. Something wells up within him, seeping into his entire being. It takes him a long time to recognise what it is. The gnawing, aching sense of loss has soaked away, and what takes its place is an all-pervading quietude, a deep-seated sense of peace. It is such a relief he feels it should make him weep, but the respite eases even that. He could drift here forever. Should drift here, for this was surely what his weary spirit had been crying out for.

A phrase rings in his mind, a scrap of some half-remembered lesson; “Voich’t ka’reen Thalassa. I shall return to the Sea, which washes away all sorrow.” Raell’s voice, edged with a longing he never betrayed in life. It would be so easy to forget everything here, to surrender to the balm of unknowing, but if he lets himself rest he knows he will not get free again. Though he has touched the memories of others who have passed through and returned, to make the journey so young and return is rare, without help.

He wonders if Rannon will call him back, if he finds Lanash’s body on the mountainside. He wonders briefly if his body has already died. Time has no meaning here. It could be moments, decades, since he first closed his eyes and went chasing the dead.

Then even that thought is gone, rendered unimportant and abandoned.

Surrendering self-image and the illusion of flesh, he gathers his awareness into a perfect sphere, firm against the laving waters of this eternal sea. Focusing, he searches and waits, searching for those he came to find. From time to time his awareness touches others, some struggling against forgetfulness; some encysted and dark, spheres of cooled consciousness; others degraded and attenuated, drifting in the invisible currents like rotten kelp. None are familiar. He holds firm to the ideal of those he is searching for, projects it like a beacon into the lightless expanse.

He loses count of the fleeting contacts that are not them.  He becomes settled to patience.

After what might be days, years, minutes, he feels the brush of something familiar.  He uncoils, reaching for it, finds the warm certainty that is his brother Ky.  There is a moment of mutual recognition, then their borders fall and they merge, unimpeded and joyous, like two drops of water in a boundless sea.

He experiences Ky's surprise at finding him as if it was his own, feels the acknowledgement of his own surging relief.  He thinks of a question and it is answered before he has a chance to frame it in words.  The others are here too; he feels Ky's consciousness extend  and embrace them, drawing them into this merging of being.

Even Neru is pleased at this reunion, blind to what his presence here means, but through the shared joy he can feel Seffian's disappointment that he chose to follow them instead of sticking with the mission.  He cannot offer an answer to her; the pain of their loss is still too real to him, despite the miraculous balm of this sea, and it is tangled with memories he wants  only to forget.  Instead he remembers  what he came here to accomplish, and tries to urge them to come back.

Understanding from them then, followed closely by pity and unwanted sympathy.  But no urge to leave.  His temper spikes, but it has lost its former strength.  Ky pulls  his awareness outwards, shows him how they are drifting as part of an immense gyre, and at its heart glows something he knows and cannot name, but his whole being yearns for it, to become part of it, to be made whole.  He'd been drifting unknowingly towards it when Ky had found him.  It is Ky who holds them anchored against its subtle pull, who shelters them all from its full force.

It takes Lanash a moment to understand why his brother is showing him this.  It takes strength to hold against the lure of oblivion, and his strength is not what it was. None of them are at their customary strength.  Neru is a flickering shadow of what he should be, sheltering without shame in Seffian's lee, and now that he understands his position Lanash is dismayed to realise he is almost as faded and weak himself.  They need to rest.

It is easy to give in to his siblings' collective will and offer of shelter.  He clings to their presence, feeling his strength return in tiny increments.  He could forget himself entirely here, were it not for Ky's solid surety holding them all together.

In this void, this non-place, they rest.

*            *            *

"There it is again."

Seffian's thoughtvoice is calm, but her excitement and curiosity spikes through them all.  Lanash focuses, a feeling like awakening.  He tries to see what has caught his sister's attention.

"It's just some remnant," Neru drawls sleepily.  He is not curious; he sends a pulse of somnolence at her to underline his point.

"If it is, it's been here forever," Seffian counters.  "It is completely static." She sends Lanash a memory of the thing she detected, a cold black flicker of something, Lanash isn't sure he'd call it consciousness.  It's like nothing he's ever encountered before. It certainly isn't one of their own kind.

"What do you think?" She asks Ky, eagerness in her tone.  "Shall we take a closer look?"

Ky is tangibly doubtful, but he is as prone to the Astares' fault of assumed invincibility as the rest of them, and it's not as if they still have bodies to get hurt. He assents, and Seffian tugs all of them in pursuit of the mysterious trace.

Her instincts are impeccable. Even without direction or reference she hones in on the remnant. As they approach, Lanash focuses his awareness on the seemingly random flicker and detects a pattern to it.  There is not one remnant mind but five or six, each pulsing faintly with its own rhythm.  One is so slow the fastest cycles eight times between its pulses.  They are not natural, he realises. They are artificial, fabricated.

Ky studies them with wary interest.  Seffian is not wrong about their age. They have been echoing into the void like dark beacons for time immemorial.  The nothingness is stratified around them, like ancient ebb.  The four of them probe the artefacts carefully, but they remain unresponsive and dark, stuttering out their slow patterns with unbroken monotony.  Their nature and purpose remain unknown.

Neru loses patience first, and before they can react he has reached out to the nearest remnant, not to probe it but to meld with it. It is one of the quicker pulsing ones, and its flicker stumbles and flares as Neru connects with it.

Awareness floods through the link they share, a stream of information too fast to make any meaning of, then the torrent slows and Lanash becomes aware of surroundings, an airless vault with the weight of a mountain pressing down on it, ranks on ranks of rows of dormant synthetic life like the one Neru is linked with, all dark, moribund but for a few that have not yet faded out.  He senses vast geometries of architecture, sweeping galleries that curl upwards in gravity-defying ascent. All empty, lifeless, long abandoned and forgotten.

Seffian voices the thought they all share.  "This is precursor architecture.  Eldalai."

"No one has ever discovered working Eldalai technology before," Neru's thoughts are full of satisfied pride at their find.

"That's because Eldalai ruins have had several thousand millennia to be picked over by scavengers," Lanash reminds him.  His thoughts whirl. Given their extreme antiquity, few Eldalai ruins survived. Yet these are in a fine state of preservation.  They must be on a long dead world, airless and cold.  Or rather, inside it.  The sense of weight of stone returns to him, at once oppressive and reassuring.

"But what are they?" Seffian asks, her thought directed at Neru.  He pauses, interrogating the synthetic mind he is joined with.

"I think they are... Weapons of some kind.  It's not really awake yet.  It - they, are intended for defence.  They're components. Not enough mind here to carry out commands.  Just enough for an interface, really. I think I can rouse it a little more."

"Careful," Ky warns unnecessarily. "Remember we're all linked."

Neru tuts at his concern.  "There's something familiar about this.  Do you remember the guard-hound units in the old city on Roquin? It reminds me of them."

"The old city ruins were early Mellidri, not Eldalai," Lanash corrects him.

"I know that, I'm just saying it feels similar.  Maybe the Mellidri got the idea from some scavenged Eldalai war machines."

Lanash regards the remnant critically. The pulses are gradually speeding up.  Neru is waking the thing.

"Maybe we should leave them alone," he suggests.  "After all, no one knows what wiped the Eldalai out."

That makes Neru chuckle.  "I don't think these little things caused the downfall of a galaxy-spanning empire, Lanash."

"They're components, you said. What's their use without the rest of the system they were designed for?"

Neru doesn't answer, but Seffian completes his thought clearly enough.  Eldalai defensive tech could give them an edge in their mission.  If they can be made to work.

Ky wavers, trapped between caution and his keen sense of duty. Of all of them, he has the clearest idea of the threats their people face.  In the end, this is too great a windfall to ignore.  He stretches a tendril of awareness out to the surviving remnants, connecting with each in turn, assessing and measuring.

"This one's mine," Neru hums, possessively curling tighter around his wakening component.  "It likes me."

"Are we even compatible?" Lanash asks, since it's clear Ky isn't going to.

"We're Astares," Seffian answers him. "We can adapt to anything."

"Almost anything," he amends, but it's clear the others have reached a consensus.  Ky finishes his inspection and gingerly melds with the most rapidly pulsing of the artefacts.  There is the slightest flutter of irregularity to its beat, a wavering instability that makes Lanash want to voice a warning, but of course Ky already knows.  That's why he chose it, so they would not. It's the strongest of the set. They wouldn't leave it behind.

Lanash views the remaining remnants. They are all far weaker. The one with the slowest pulse is already nearly dead, so he dismisses it. Another is cycling slower and faster by tiny increments. He distrusts it. The remaining two are sluggish but more stable.  He chooses the one that's a little stronger.

Seffian, conducting her own assessment, comes to the same conclusion a moment later, and her thoughts are full of sardonic amusement. "Why, thank you for leaving me the safest-looking one," she quips, not quite annoyed at them.  She bonds with the thing deftly, like she's made a habit of insinuating herself into strange tech.  It probably isn't far from the truth.

With their focus thus diverted the connexion between them thins.  For the first time, Lanash realises his strength has returned. The echo of matter draws him, and he thinks longingly of his flesh, waiting empty and abandoned in the lap of the mountains.  "It's time," Ky confirms, already turning away from the ghost pull of the gyre, and Lanash can feel the wakening stir of his own newly bonded component all but dragging him back towards life.

.