02 WRITHING IN THE DARK

                    —PAINTED along the spines of seven noble warriors is a saying written in a language long forgotten to the living world. Starting at the tailbone and rising to the very cusp of their skull is a series of jagged characters and curving symbols. The raw translation has been lost over the years, and its meaning butchered to suit the needs of the greedy, but the power embedded in the skin still lives.

To them and theirs, it simply translates to: For my Lord and Court I will sacrifice.

It is a promise to surrender everything—mind, body, and soul—to their home and High Lord. It is a promise to defend it all until their last breath. It is a promise to live and die with loyalty and devotion.

An honor, to be chosen by the Divine string of fate woven by the very Mother herself. An honor, to be the sword and the shield.

But to some, it is a heavier burden.

In the night, she feels it—this promise she is supposed to keep—and it burns. Sharpened claws dig into her back and shred her to pieces from the inside out.

Because she has failed.

Every morning, noon, and terrible night, she fails.

Kazimyrah fails to stop the female of flaming hair who now sits on a throne of lies and deceit. She fails to stop her from taking the High Lord of the Night Court away from the safety of her arms. She fails to do her sworn duty.

Forty-three times, she's tried, and forty-three times she's paid the price.

And it's killing her slowly.

The dungeon is too familiar with her anguished screams, with her blood, her sweat, and her tears. Its six all-encompassing walls are familiar with her agony. They know the frantic way she pleads, not for herself, but for the male with violet eyes who is locked away in a prison of his own. They know the way her voice cracks in two when her mind is pushed beyond its breaking point.

They know the way she slowly begins to welcome dark oblivion like an old lover.

The ones who dwell down there, as well, are intimately acquainted with her suffering. The creature, the horrid monster, the Attor, who stands by the Witch-turned-Deceiver, is the guardian's vicious warden. And he has no reserves for mercy or for pity. He is made of hate, and so hate he reaps—upon her and her back.

There's a raspy cackle that spurts from his lips as he brings down another lashing to her shoulder blades. Blood trails in rivers down her ribs and hips before falling to the stone floor where she's yielded her body and mind to the torture. Her palms press harder into the wall to conceal their shaking, but the quivering elbows betray her and rattle the chains connected to her wrists. He brings down another wave of pain without mercy.

The ancient words in black ink have been mutilated beyond comprehension with the repetitive lash of the whip, now resembling a mess of lines with no meaning, with no purpose. A suitable punishment, the thought passes her by on cruel wings, to display the evidence of her failures. A true guardian, she is not.

Her shivering body stills as the belittling thoughts are wiped clean from her mind with a gentle flush of darkness. In its place, the sound of a home, the sound of quiet conversation and clinking silverware, the faint sound of a rushing river, the sound of a memory she is quick to cling to. Resting her forehead against the cool rock, she allows it to consume her entirely.

Somewhere many levels above, where the sounds of torture are of a different nature, the High Lord of the Night Court is far away from himself.

In his head, he is surrounded by his family. In his head, he is surrounded by chosen family. In his head, he is happy. In his head, he is able to forget the present and future, and remember the past.

He remembers what this is all for. All this suffering, all this darkness, all this torture.

It is for love.

The love of a people, the love of a city, the love of a family.

And he shares it all. He pushes his way into her shielded mind, and they share this moment, this memory. Together. Always together.

So far apart, they suffer, but they heal as one.

Down in the dungeons, dark and deep, Kazimyrah feels it—this purpose she thought had disappeared with her dignity many moons ago. It starts in her back and warms her in the unforgiving cold. She cannot and will not forget just what their sacrifice is for, what her sacrifice is for.

It is this strength that picks her up from the dungeon floor when the Attor finally unlocks her chains and leaves her to her wounds. It is this strength that carries her through the tunneled halls to her chamber, ignoring every face that reflects the horrific painting on her back. It is this strength that allows her to keep walking despite the inviting darkness.

And as she falls asleep that night to the sound of home and love, the words upon her back begin to stitch themselves together like new over marred and broken skin. The power within simmers to the surface, awakening. It urges her to continue fighting, to continue living.

She knows that when a promise is broken, it is never quite the same. But what she does not know, is that her promise is yet to be broken. She does not know that she carries, at her back, the words, For those I love I will fight.

                    —KAZI feels like time is passing in a serpentine crawl. When she moves, she moves through honey and tar, sticking and snagging on every moment, each second trying to drag her down and bury her. It is a battle to reach the next day, the next week, month, and year.

There are times where it feels as if she is stuck living in a single instant, trying to break free. The Mountain has become a world of its own, and it does not spin. It follows no such laws of nature. The word of the Deceiver is law, and what she demands is never ending suffering for all those who endure this Underneath.

Overcome with a sudden wave of restlessness, Kazi moves a sluggish arm through the air, if only to make sure time is still moving forward and hasn't fully stopped around her. A body in the room heaves a sigh and another makes an indignant sound from the back of their throat.

"Stop moving," Serana says, helpfully translating Tsavani's choked sound of exasperation, though its meaning was made quite clear by the jab of pain in between her shoulders where the female has just prodded her. "She can't help you if you insist on being stubborn and fidgety like a youngling."

Kazi is about to tell the Guardians of the Day and Dawn Courts that they should not be helping her in any case when Serana's warm hand smooths her hair down and away from Tsavani's workspace. She tenses, knowing that a touch can be a double-edged sword. But the hand only combs the ebony locks gently. It is a pleasant shock to Kazi's system, and she relaxes unconsciously. Her eyes involuntarily flutter shut against the ratty throw blanket beneath her, relishing the feel of a compassionate touch after so long of nothing but the bite of a whip, and slash of a talon.

For once, she is grateful for this slow-moving world. She just wants to live in this moment for as long as she can. To bask in the presence of these two beacons of light for as long as possible. Until the end of time, if they'll have her.

But it ends, as all good things tend to do in this unforgiving Mountain.

Tsavani's hands leave her back and Serana's, her head. The unrelenting cold begins to seep in again with the dread. She shivers it away, conscious of the way her back still stings with the movement.

Her arms push her up from the bed slowly and Tsavani looks away politely despite the winding bandages covering most of her torso. Serana has no such manners and continues to face Kazi's bare form as she moves to retrieve a clean shirt from the wardrobe across the room. The eyes lay heavily on her form, and Kazi can feel the words before they come.

"You're not eating well." The usual luster within the Day Court Guardian's voice is gone. In its place: disapproval. Kazi resists another shiver as the room drastically drops in temperature with her friend's mood. "I can see your fucking bones."

Kazi feels a second set of eyes settle on her body and blinks at the small, disappointed hum that comes with it. She quickly maneuvers her way into the loose tunic to avoid any more scrutiny they have in store. She can feel the skin across her ribs, she can feel it pull in ways it hadn't just five years ago. She does not need to be reminded of how her body is handling this new world.

The silence in the room is expectant. And Kazi knows she must be the one to speak, to give her excuses. But she cannot find the words to tell them that food tastes like ash, that it feels like stones in her stomach.

The silence does not break as Tsavani's hands spell out a series of words. Kazi roughly understands it to mean, "I will make you something if you do not wish to eat the Deceiver's food."

That chain of words sends her mind into an endless spin, and through the blurring of her eyes she can see Tsavani's sister, the previous Guardian of the Dawn Court, Jastia. Jastia had been kind to a fault as well, stubbornly protective of those she loved. And it had been her downfall in the end.

"I'm alright, Van," Kazi turns her down, trying not to think of the late guardian. "Thank you."

Serana grumbles, however. "Alright, my ass. You're lucky you didn't die from the blood loss and malnutrition. I swear, I'll get Alastair and Anahera in here so they can kick some damn sense into you."

The threat is meant to tease her, she knows this, but it stings somewhere deep. Anahera and Alastair are not speaking with her. They have not spoken to her for a long while, and she does not know when—or if—they ever will again. As long as Amarantha has Rhysand underneath her clawed thumb, the High Lords of the Summer Court and the Winter Court have forbidden association of any kind with the Night Court and its patrons.

Amarantha's Whore, they call him to his face and to his back, and Kazi has to conjure every ounce of self-control not to defend his honor.

They'll see and say what they want, her High Lord had told her after a particularly gossip-filled meal among the nobility. As long as it isn't the truth, I can accept it.

"The last thing we need is to train a new guardian from scratch down here," Serana continues. "Especially when we don't know who will receive your blessing when you're gone. You can bet that if one of your distant cousins outside the mountain is deemed the next Guardian, the bitch won't let them in for shit. She'd sooner take the opportunity to kill Rhysand, loyal or not. And that goes for all of us. Alastair's daughters are back in the Winter Court with their mother. Anahera's nephew is protecting Varian and Cresseida in Adriata. Even Nazir left Isran back home. Supposing they're all next in line, they are useless out there. We are the ones in here, so our only option is to live. Your only option is to live, Kazi. So live."

She refuses to cry, but Kazi can feel herself overheating with the warmth of Serana's conviction. The silence that descends now is final, and she knows anything she says will end with her tears.

Tsavani's fingers twitch for a moment on her legs in thought before finally saying their peace. "Who needs Alistair and Hera when we've got you, Serana?"

The room fills with laughter from every direction. Kazi cannot even feel the sharp pains in her muscles as she smiles away the dark night.

"I'm the oldest one in this room, so the obligation to reprimand fell to me," Serana says in defense.

"By 26 years." Kazi rolls her eyes. "Barely anything."

"But we've both got three centuries on Tsavani." They both look to the younger guardian whose cheeks turn a dark red hue at their attention. "We have to set the good example. The Mother knows Nazir is a terrible influence on her."

Tsavani's hands wildly fling about. "Well, Nazir says Kazi was the bad influence on him."

Kazi vows to get him for that later. Eris Vanserra was the most prominent figure in his upbringing, and that alone says enough about who influenced who. She may have spoiled Nazir on her visits when he was just a youngling, but the Crown Prince of the Autumn Court is entirely responsible for his corruption.

"Tell me how I know it's always you three when I get a ringing in my left ear." The monotoned voice comes from the door.

Kazi blinks away surprise, wondering how she'd missed the quiet intrusion. But then she remembers how all her reserves of energy are catering to her healing back. Of course, she is going to miss the muffled sound of footsteps and oiled hinges when she can barely even hear her own breathing in the silence.

"Just like how I know it's always you when I get the sensation of being watched?" Serana asks over her shoulder and the hooded figure steps over the threshold into the room. He closes the door softly and leans his broad back against it. "You're sloppy without your magic, you know."

"Yes, well, I don't see anyone else faring better without their abilities. Frustrating as it is, it brings me immense pleasure to see Beron break down every time he tries to light the hearth and receives only a little fizzle."

The three females can't help but snicker at the idea of the High Lord of Autumn crying over an unlit fire. It brings them endless pleasure to think of it, as well. Nazir does not join in on their laughter, but Kazi wants to believe he is fighting off a smirk in the shadows of his hood.

She tries to conjure his face in her mind and finds it hard after the past three centuries of seeing only brief flashes of his angled chin and nothing more. His unblemished, eighteen-year-old face is fuzzy in her mind, but she can still remember the shape and color of his eyes vividly. Identical to his mother's, beautiful like hers.

"He's got your eyes, Bash," Kazi remarks, happily offering up one of her pointer fingers to the faeling's fisted grasp when he flails his arms. He gurgles with joy and wiggles her digit about.

"But Mikal's mane of hair, however," Mor says as she gushes over the baby in her cradled arms. She is bumping him up and down in a soothing rhythm to hopefully get him to sleep. "I call claims to getting him combs for solstices."

Basheera smiles up at them from her bed. "Morrigan, we still haven't found uses for all the combs you've given Mikal."

"Everyone has to have extras in case they break," the female defends herself naturally.

"You got him a jade comb years ago, specifically so it wouldn't break so easily," the new mother says. "And a collection of jade clips."

Kazi shakes her head fondly at their conversation, still amused by the faeling gripping her fingers. He will most definitely be in dire need of a comb very soon, just as Mor predicts, if his full head of dark hair is anything to note. But Mor has probably supplied this family with enough combs to last a few centuries-long generations.

"Kazimyrah, would you like to hold him?" Basheera's voice comes from the bed, knocking Kazi out of her silent contemplation of the faeling.

"Oh, can I?" she asks both the Guardian of the Autumn Court and Mor who now holds him.

Basheera grins and gestures for the blonde to relinquish her hold on Nazir. Mor presses a little kiss to the little youngling's forehead before offering him over. She has Kazi adjust her arms a few times so that his head is fully supported, and legs secured.

"I have held a baby before, Mor," more than a century ago, her mind reminds her.

"Sorry, sorry," her friend apologizes and steps away to help lure Basheera into resting while she can leave her son in capable hands.

Kazi chuckles and looks down to admire the precious being in her arms. She rocks him side to side, still with her finger in his smaller hand. He is looking back up to her, and once again, she finds the striking resemblance between his and his mother's. A deep and dark copper with flecks of a reddish-brown around the edges.

In her mind, she sees the color lighten into that of a shining bronze with flecks of gold.

She blinks it all away as quickly as possible, knowing the last thing she needs is to be thinking of him while holding a child. That slope is too steep, too precarious. It is one she dare not traverse.

"I can remember when you were this small," Mor says quietly as she approaches, seeing Nazir yawn and fight off tiredness while his mother is gladly giving into her own exhaustion across the room. "It's probably one of my first memories ever, actually. I remember there was a large celebration. Everyone was so thrilled to now have the next generation of High Lord and Guardian in place."

Kazi, slowly pulling her finger from Nazir's relaxed grip just as he begins to snore, nods in understanding.

"All Rhys and I wanted to do was see you, but Indira kept pulling us away so we wouldn't overwhelm you or your mother." Mor smirks. "Eventually, when we were supposed to be in bed, we snuck away to try and find you. Rhys wasn't all too happy when we found you sleeping in his old basinet."

'Sharing' is still not a word Rhysand fully believes in.

"Khandora eventually caught us snooping around her rooms," Mor admits. "Your mother didn't send us away, though. She allowed us to stay and keep her company for a while. She even let us hold you when you woke up; with her assistance, of course.

"You hated when I held you—cried bloody murder whenever I tried," she scowls playfully. "But him...I think something within you has always known who he was to you, who he would become. You latched onto his shirt, cuddled into him, and fell asleep just like that. And Rhys, as well; I think, from that moment on, he never really wanted to be parted from you."

Kazi, without a free hand to stop them from falling, feels tears slowly trace down her cheeks.

Mor slowly takes Nazir back into her own arms, cooing him back into slumber as he tries to stir. She walks him over to his own basinet beside Basheera's bed. Lowering him into it, the female hums a common lullaby known throughout Prythian.

While her friend tends to the sleeping Nazir, Kazi writes a short note to Basheera for when she wakes. She hopes that the guardian can get a few hours in before her son rouses her. It is the least she deserves.

Kazi forcefully pushes the memory from her mind, everything about it going sour as she thinks of the events to take place 18 years later.

Even after three centuries, the Guardian of the Autumn Court's premeditated execution is an open wound to everyone in the Divine Circle.

As her eyes scan the others in the room, still locked away in their moment of merriment, Kazi realizes all of their predecessors faced untimely ends. Tsavani's elder sister, Jastia, lost to the troupe of males that cut out her tongue. Serana's uncle, Sazh, killed within the first year of the war in a vicious ambush. Kazi's own father, Raxleon, slayed in the Spring Court defending Rhysand's father.

Nazir seems to notice her sudden shift and straightens away from the door. "You look sickly, my friend."

Kazi's frown deepens as her eyes find their way to the ceiling and away from his prying gaze. "So I've been told. I will go scavenge for food right now if it'll please the lot of you?"

Tsavani stands abruptly from the bed's edge, her head shaking violently. Quick and steady hands guide Kazi by the shoulders to where she'd just been lying previously. Kazi sits obediently and looks up to the younger female with expectant eyebrows. The insistence is amusing, yet also mildly irritating.

"You mustn't exert yourself. I said I would make you something." Her fingers are twirling about in the air. "Thesan will have ingredients to make a poultice for you, as well."

Kazi does not wish for Thesan to know of what's happened to her, of what's happened to her forty-three times now over the years, but she cannot say anything to sway the Guardian of the Dawn Court from the idea before she is gone. Serana is hot on her heels with murmurs of 'finally, some good fucking food.'

Nazir remains behind, having closed the door again at Serana's retreating back. He stands there for a moment, unmoving, listening for sounds in the surrounding hallways and rooms as he tends to do when in want of privacy. His build is tall and unmissable, but the shadows cut around him in ways that purposefully distract the eyes down and away. The likeness it holds to another leaves her breathless.

She shakes her head to clear away thoughts of old dreams. They have no place in this eternal nightmare, no place in this infernal reality.

Satisfied with the sound of dormant corridors, he turns to face the room, to face her. He still does not speak and only continues to survey her a few paces away.

"I will have you refrain from mocking my appearance more," she says in a scolding tone. She can't even remember the last time she'd used this tone with him. "I have heard enough of it from the others. I certainly don't need it from you. What you can do is bring me my cuirass and thigh sheaths."

Nazir clicks his tongue in defiance but does as she wills without hesitation. He moves about the room, cloak billowing as he collects the miscellaneous pieces to her armor. As he goes, she watches him inspect them for wear and tear as any seasoned warrior does, just as she and his mother taught him.

"I will make you a new thigh scabbard," he says, looking upon her current one with a disdainful tone of voice. "Your cuirass will be fine for a while longer. Just don't go picking a fight with the Attor."

Kazi's is unable to hide the slight draw back she makes at the horrid creature's name. He notices, she is sure, but says nothing of it. Instead, he loosens the buckles on the armor so she can stand from the mattress and easily slip into it with his assistance. Holding his shoulders to keep steady, she steps into the loops of the harness on unsteady feet. He moves the straps up her legs with practiced hands and secures them with light tugs.

"Are they tight enough?" he asks, looking up to her from his kneeled stance.

When was the last time she had to look down to see him? So long ago, she thinks; she misses it terribly. She misses being able to cradle him in her arms while his mother takes a much-needed break away from courtly duties. She misses chasing him around the forest, misses making piles of dead leaves for him to jump in. He's grown so tall since those early years. She can hardly even remember when he'd passed her up, and it startles her to know he will never be that youngling again, that she will never be able to care for him in the same way again.

Kazi nods finally, and he pushes himself off the ground to help her with the light chest armor. She moves stiffly now, feeling the raw skin stretching uncomfortably around her mid back. He pauses. "You don't have to wear this today. It would be better for your back to breathe."

But she's insistent. Wearing her armor means she's still fighting. Wearing her armor means she's still living, as Serana had so eloquently put it.

He sees her steadfast expression and continues working on the clasps and ties, thankfully knowing which battles he should and shouldn't pick when it comes to her. She resolves herself to only wince when he's turned his shaded gaze away from her.

While he works on the last knot at her waist, there comes a deep breath from the darkness of his hood. She prepares to shoot down another suggestion to lay low or rest, but what he says stops her short.

"I overheard the Deceiver talking about you," he breathes unsteadily.

"Singing my praises, I assume?" The joke dies bitterly on her lips.

Nazir finishes his work hastily yet efficiently and looks up. She cannot see him, and it pains her to think of what face he might be making. "She's tired of torturing you."

"She's tired?" She snorts. If anything, the bitch probably sleeps easier knowing Kazi edges the canyon of death each night this happens.

"Kazimyrah," he says, gravity leveling his voice. She has nothing except her undivided attention to offer. "She's planning something."

When is she not? Kazi wants to scoff.

"Leave her to her planning, I'll take what comes, I can handle it," she says. His tense shoulders tell her he is unconvinced by her statement, but she insists that he listen to her next words. "And be careful spying on her. I will not be pleased if I see you end up in the dungeons, as well."

"When are you ever pleased with me?" he drones.

She sighs, and her hand finds its way to the thin hem of his hood. She does not brush it aside, only fingers the fabric. She knows the boundaries he has set, knows that even she may not trespass.

"I will always be proud of you, Nazir."

There is a single lengthy moment before his gloved hand comes up and encircles her wrist loosely. Instead of lowering it like she presumes he is about to do, he guides her palm slowly to his cheek through the darkness. Her fingers brush lightly over the soft and calloused patches that have healed over the years since the fire that killed his mother took half his face. He holds her there gently as warm tears snake across the back of her hand and underneath her fingertips. His silent breath rushes across the sensitive skin in quick short bursts.

She does not cry. He needs to see her strong, unbreakable...even as she is torn apart inside.

"They're coming," he whispers, voice thick, and finally pulls her hand away from his deep tissue scarring.

Kazi does not have a moment to say anything to him before the door opens. The Guardians of the Day and Dawn Court arrive with bowls of steaming soup. Both are smiling as they enter, and the effect is instantaneous.

Their light opens up in the room and chases away the sorrow.

NOTES ;

AW, I LOVE GIVING MY SIDE
CHARACTERS STORIES. EVEN
WHEN THEY'RE TRAUMATIC.

KAZI AND RHYSAND BOTH
BEING TORTURED FOR
THINGS THEY LOVE. I CAN'T
WITH THEM.

ALSO, THE WHOLE TATTOO
THING...SO BASICALLY, THE
FIRST GUARDIANS THAT THE
MOTHER CREATED HAD
ENCHANTED SPINAL TATTOOS.
OVER THE YEARS, SUCCEEDING
GUARDIANS WOULD JUST COPY
THE WORDS EVEN THOUGH THE
LANGUAGE DIED OUT. SO THE
TATTOOS ARE TECHNICALLY
STILL ENCHANTED BUT THEIR
MEANING HAS BEEN LOST.

ALSO, THE FLASHBACK WITH
NAZIR AND HIS MOTHER MAKES
ME SOFT AND SAD AT THE SAME
TIME. AND THEN THEIR HEART
TO HEART :((( I LOVE THEM

AND AS IT STANDS, ALISTAIR AND
ANAHERA ARE NOT ON SPEAKING
TERMS WITH KAZI BECAUSE OF
RHYSAND'S POSITION WITH
AMARANTHA. THE YOUNGER
GUARDIANS (TSAVANI, SERANA,
AND NAZIR) ARE STILL SPEAKING
WITH HER, THOUGH BECAUSE THEY
ARE CLOSER FRIENDS. AND FOR
OBVIOUS REASONS, LINDEN CAN'T
TALK WITH HER

IF THERE'S ANY FORMATTING
ISSUES, PLEASE LET ME KNOW, BC
I AM TRANSFERRING THIS OVER
FROM WORD AND SOMETIMES
THINGS DON'T PROPERLY TRANSFER!