Temporary? Insanity

Chapter One: The Pale of the Moon

He would kill her if the moon turned red.

Obscured by the jutting black shadows of the distant mountains, only the faintest glimmer of moonlight touched the night sky. Everything in him yearned for red, for the pain and the release from pain it might prove to be. But it was too soon to discern the color, whether it would be a mild blue or purple, an ominous green, or the red Tyrnas longed for.

The sight of Mikna building up the fire did little to calm his sense of urgency. If anything, it was intensified by the sight of her mottled red flesh and the way her fiery blood traced patterns beneath her translucent skin. The Ki’lyn were vile beasts and Mikna was no exception. The thick black horn protruding from her forehead pulsed in syncopated rhythm with the churning of her blood.

He’d been able to avoid the sight of her somewhat during the forced companionship of their journey to Lyden, but the dark of night left little else for the eye to rest on. There was Mikna, the fire, and the approach of the moon. Tyrnas shuddered as he fought off a wave of nausea, kneading his gut with a balled up fist. He would be glad when this farce of an alliance was over.

“You’re not going to complain that you’re cold, are you, Elf?” Mikna’s nasal voice interrupted his thoughts as she flicked his dark topknot with one of her claws. She crouched down next to him. “How can you sit shivering in front of a bonfire? Unnatural creature.”

Repulsed by her sudden nearness Tyrnas rose to his feet and began pacing the perimeter of the small blaze. He distracted himself by staring at his hands and at the delicate intertwining of the leaves tattooed around his wrists and forearms. Against the pale backdrop of his Elfin whiteness the leaves seemed almost to thrum with life. He marvelled over the fact that he couldn’t feel them moving about, stirred by the cool evening breeze.

Mikna snorted then, her large nostrils flaring. Possibly she was impatient over his silence, or over his sudden fascination with his own hands. The Ki’lyn were not a patient race.

Tyrnas willed the contempt he felt to show on his face as he turned to look at her. She had turned to tend the fire again and he was repulsed by the sight of her bald and scaly skull bent so low, so visible, its only ornament the ebony horn that sourced the Ki’lyn’s powers. And she called him unnatural.

“Strictly defined, none of us are really natural.” He batted distractedly at a moth-winged fairy that hovered by his ear. It gave a high pitched yelp and careened off into the night.

Mikna craned her head to one side, her scaly eyelids blinking in a reptilian fashion. “Oh really? An interesting assertion coming from a Conclave member. Are the others aware of your heretical pandering to the old ways?”

Tyrnas could sense her amusement and he briefly looked towards the mountains, seeking the moon. “Old and wrong aren’t necessarily the same thing. We forget that sometimes.” He touched the hilt of his sword beneath his cloak, tracing his fingertips across the tightly bound leather. The moon had been swallowed whole by the clouded night sky.

“And you seem to have forgotten all good sense. There are council members who would pay dearly to learn that you have betrayed the Conclave. Why trust me with this?”

The cold calculation in her voice further repulsed him, but no matter the colour of the moon he had to give her a warning, a chance for redemption. He chafed at the delay, willing the clouds to disperse.

“There are many forms of betrayal. Be wary, Mikna,” he replied. “The time spoken of in the prophecies is at hand.”

“The prophecies?” She let out a short bark of a laugh, rocking back on her haunches. “Not just nostalgic for the old ways, you’re a believer! I would not have thought you so simple minded, Elf. Prophecies are nothing but human nonsense. Pretty little stories.”

“Humans are more perceptive than many of us give them credit for. In any case, not everyone shares your skepticism.”

“No,” she replied. “There are fools enough in all worlds to bring believers to any cause.”

“Who is really the fool? You refer to prophecy as a human invention. Do you think it a coincidence that we, the creatures of their stories, have prophecies of our own?”

She waved one of her triple-clawed hands at him dismissively. “You would do better to remember Anghar’s fate than to try to seek me as a convert to your mad beliefs. The Conclave is not kind to traitors. I have seen your distaste when you look upon me, but I think your people far more brutal than mine. Anghar could attest to that were he able.”

“Do not speak his name,” Tyrnas replied coldly. The distant mountains appeared increasingly eerie as the moon rose, strange shadows cast upon the surface of the world. The wind caught at the clouds and tugged them free, green light spilling forth like a plague upon the land below.

“Struck a nerve, have I?” Mikna continued, the fire within her stirring up shadows as she laughed. “I shouldn’t be surprised you knew him, spouting heresy the way you are. Will you follow his path then? Preach your precious beliefs and prophecies till the Conclave silences you?”

He ignored her mockery and forced himself to look upon the green moon that had denied him access to her blood. A groan rippled through him but he pushed his disappointment aside. He sought comfort in thoughts of what the green moon allowed for.

“Oh no, Mikna. Anghar was an admirable comrade and I loved him well, but I have devised other ways of seeking converts.” He twitched aside his cloak and drew his sword in one fluid motion.

Mikna rose slowly to her feet and backed away. Her thickly muscled shoulders tensed, and the muted glow of her red skin flared to life, more vibrant now than the fire. “Fool,” she spat. “You more than any of your kind know the power of my horn. Spill but one drop of my blood and I will rain curses upon you and all your kin!”

“The moon is green, Mikna. It does not desire your blood.” He advanced towards her, his blade sending flickers of light and shadow skittering ahead of him. “There is now a greater price to be paid. You should not have mocked the prophecies.” He added in a whisper, “I have no kin, and I am already damned.”

His blade sliced through the air towards her face. She stumbled backwards and fell heavily to the ground. Tyrnas lost himself in the sounds of his attack. The swish of the sword through the night air. The dull ring of it slicing through the miserable creature’s horn. The thud of a useless lump of ebony landing in the dirt. Wailing in the night.

She still wailed, even after she lay bound and gagged on the opposite side of the fire. The pathetic creature had no idea how fortunate she was. The moon could have risen red. He watched as the light within her slowly sputtered, dimmed, and then went out entirely. She lived, but without her horn she was Ki’lyn no more.

Though he had never considered himself cruel, pity was inaccessible. He could now see why this had been demanded. The words of the prophecies burned within him, a torrent of power and purpose that compelled his obedience to their will. Mikna had laughed but soon she would know. She and all the rest of them who mocked would be made to know.

He stared up at the green-tinged sky, thinking of a world where the moon was never green. Those fool humans were coming, and them he could almost pity. They would find Taigaea a sweet place, full of wonders and access to newfound powers. Glory would whisper seductively in their ears, and others would tell them of their so-called destiny. But Tyrnas knew otherwise. Their very attempts would destroy the world they sought to save and as it ended, so would his pain.

He was The Guide, and the prophecies promised him this reward.