Date: February 23, 1999
Place: Throne Room, Chambers of the God-King - Atesh-Gah - Haven
Cast: Eranthe, Khalid (I/III)
Scene: As part of the peace treaty, Eranthe goes to meet with the God-King of the Varati, to answer for her part in the war. The treatment she receives is perhaps the last thing she expected.

You are met at the entrance hall by the black and silver attired guards of the Agni-Haidar. Instructing your own House Guards to wait within the prior room, the royal guard escort you with steady steps towards the throne room. The halls are dimly lit from small oil lamps and few courtiers linger in your path. Those who are present pause to stare and gape or whisper among themselves.

"Eranthe Martinia Acesian." The name is spoken clearly by the herald, who is the sole member of the court, besides the death guard of the Agni-Haidar, which ring the various pillars and guard the walls and exits. Your name is spoken a second time and then a third, clearly and loudly within the giant room. Upon the marble throne, the God-King of the Varati stirs and lifts his head, so as to regard you with fiery blue eyes.

Eranthe was escorted here by her guards and her nervousness. However, she has neither now, having settled into an odd sense of calm when she was shown into the throne room. The girl's wings flex once, a soft brush of feather against feather, and then tuck in close to her body as she skirts a quick glance around. Why isn't she afraid? She has been called before the God-King of the Varati, a being with the power and will to reduce a city to ash. The quiet sadness about her expression hints that perhaps she wishes to accept the responsibility she feels belongs to her. That perhaps she seeks to stand before someone who will finally condemn her past actions instead saying, as she's heard over and over again, that it's not her fault. Perhaps she's just too broken to care? The girl lifts a hand to trail along locks that are no longer there, fingers having to reach up further to touch at the jagged shards of hair which crown her head. She is announced and, once silence has descended, she moves forward with light steps. A small distance from the throne, she kneels and folds, pressing her hands and forehead to the floor. "Amir-al," she speaks softly, her faintly spread wings casting a shadow beneath their white purity.

Settled upon cushions, silk and pillows, Khalid shifts again within his perch upon the throne, so as to gain a better view of you. Smoke rises from the slit lamps by the sides of the throne and the oils give off a distinct, albeit somewhat sweet, smell. Long black hair frames his face, let loose and free. "You may rise, Dea Acesian. Step closer to the throne so I may regard you fully."

Not a word is spoken by any within the throne room. The herald has left and the Agni-Haidar stand at rigid attention, watching you with sharp, dangerous eyes.

Eranthe sits up, drawing in a soft breath before rising to her feet. A slender hand drifts down catch hold of a bit of her chimere, pulling the silks up so that she will not step on, and dirty, them as she walks. She does not pay much attention to the guards who eye her so coldly, her quiet focus being on you alone. Despite her broken soul, she cannot help but be a little curious. Pale eyes trace along the features of your face, the dark lines of your wings, the cut of your form. Drawing close, she comes to a stop directly in front of you and folds her hands. Silence cloaks her and propriety dictates that she wait. However, after a lingering moment, she gazes at you with the expression of an earnest, mournful child. "I..." A pause, a brief nibble on her lower lip. "I am sorry."

"Why are you sorry, Eranthe Martinia Acesian? Why does sorrow cling to your body and soul like a tangible shroud of despair? I see it upon you and it has taken its toll." Khalid's eyes widen a bit, then almost disappear in a veil of thick, silky black lashes, even as ebon wings spread open and cloak the throne and dais in a curtain of shadow. It is difficult to tell what is transpiring upon that marble seat, yet you can feel the regard of those powerful, fiery blue eyes. "Tell me of your sorrow and your guilt, Dea Acesian." His voice is soft, soothing, but always commanding. It carries well in this large, open hall.

Eranthe shakes her head slightly, pressing her lips into a faint frown as she shifts her gaze off to the side. Pale gaze focuses on nothing, her vision hazing over as she allows her thoughts and guilt to overwhelm her senses. "So many have died," she murmurs, her soft voice distant. The twilight song of a dove mourning in the wind. Silence stretches a spell over her for a time, and then she blinks once, redirecting her eyes to your face. A very faint blush warms her cheeks and her wings flick outward. "I do not think I can explain it very well. It's locked, without words." The girl lays a hand over her breast. Locked. Here, in her heart. "So many have died. Because..." Because of her actions, her foolish actions, all that time ago.

"Is this your fault? Will you take the blame for all? You have such slender, frail shoulders, Dea Acesian. I do not believe you can withstand the burden of such guilt." Khalid speaks quietly, yet as always, his words are heard by all within his presence. Twisting his head again, those black tresses threaten to shield even his eyes behind their silky locks. He lifts a hand and brushes back his hair, even as he continues to study you from his elevated position upon the throne. "I am sorry too, Eranthe Martinia Acesian." He whispers the name so softly, as if he were tasting each and every word. "You have a lovely name."

Eranthe lifts up a hand to tuck back the phantom locks she has cut away, slender fingers tracing along the edge of her ear. "People are quick to comfort me, to redirect the blame," she starts in quiet reply, looking down to absently consider her sandaled toes peeking out beneath her hem. "To shield me from the burden of responsibility. And, to be logical and minute in detail, yes. I did not declare the war. All those soldiers who died, both Empyrean and Varati, did not fall by my hand." She traces her way back up to your face, anchoring her attention there and laying bare the broken innocence that has bled her dry. "However, when looking back, I cannot deny the fact that it was my actions that set all this into motion." Those soft, pale eyes shine with the prelude to tears, tears she is determined to keep at bay. Her pain is evident. "And I should have done something. I... I had thought to turn myself over to you, to the Varati, on the cusp of this war." A faint frown and a brief shake of her head -- confusion? "But... but I was talked out of it. Or something. I..." Part of your statement finally catches up with her and serves to increase her befuddlement. She cocks her head and blinks once. She has a lovely name? "Amir-al?" She doesn't understand. What does that have to do with anything?

"I am sorry, Dea. I am sorry that you have been made to believe that this is all your fault." Khalid inhales deeply, as black wings flap once, still raised in an arch over his slender, strong form. "Do you think, Eranthe Martinia Acesian, that you would have been able to change the course of the war? That I should end such a war, because you have turned yourself over to me? That I had ever blamed you for such a thing?" He speaks quietly and only to you, "Never was it your fault. No more than it is the fault of a child for being beaten by a drunken father. Like a puppet on strings did you dance to the tune of others. You were an excuse to be used for the purposes of others." Curling back a lock of hair behind his ear, he speaks again, "You have a beautiful name for it reminds me of the Empyre itself."

Eranthe pulls in a soft breath, her chest expanding as she holds it for a moment. Her lips part faintly and she searches through all her disorganized thoughts for words which elude her. "It might not have changed anything," she finally whispers, her voice hushed so that only you can hear it although she doesn't do this purposefully. "But I should have tried." Everyone should have tried but she can only be accountable for herself. Any further sentiments, though, are silenced as she blushes more deeply under the kindness of your other comments. Wings flick outward again, a bit of a nervous twitch, and, should the thought strike anyone, it's a good thing that there's nothing breakable within her immediate vicinity. "But, I forget myself. You wished me here and then I just burst along on my own course." The girl nods her head politely, respectfully. "I did not mean to divert from the topics which you wished to speak to me about."

"You speak on the topic of which I desired to discuss, Eranthe. Do not apologize." Khalid's mouth forces itself into a serious, almost grim pose as he studies you from within the depths of the shadows that he has brought upon himself with glorious black wings. "What do I see when I look upon you, Eranthe Martinia Acesian? I see the Empyre." A sad, small smile breaks his stoic, unforgiving demeanor. "She was glorious once and beautiful. Proud, she flew above all others in the heights of the heavens. Then through folly, folly that was her own mistake, in part, but mostly due to the manipulations of her masters, she fell. And she was broken. Now, she is but a shadow, a reflection of what she once was. And this is you, Eranthe. I see the Empyre within your pained, broken heart." He lets his words echo through the hall as he lapses into a momentary silence.

Eranthe shifts faintly, passing the focus of her weight from one foot to the other. It's amusing, in a way, that you should see in her the Empyre. The girl's mother would probably laugh, as she was a source of embarrassment growing up. Shy, clumsy and far too sympathetic to those beneath her station, she was always viewed as a less-than-exemplary Empyrean noble. So the young woman does not know how to take your words, life having ill-prepared her for such comparisons. Choosing to ignore the direct reference to herself, Eranthe focuses solely on the topic of the Empyre. "I hope that my nation can again attain such glory." She glances down, twisting the silver band on her finger, and adds in softer tones, "And that we never forget the price of being prideful."

"I hope that you, as well, can grow from this, Eranthe. You were not perfect before this war. You were flawed, as your Empyre was. I see you stand on the edge of the abyss, surrounded by darkness. Everywhere you look, you see despair." Leaning back into the throne of marble, Khalid regards you with steady, fiery blue eyes from under that veil of long, thick lashes. "You have survived the torment of the moment, Eranthe Martinia Acesian, but will you survive the pain of living every day from now until your death?" The God-King of the Varati shifts within the confines of his seat as he speaks, "Will you crumble under the weight of your own sorrow, or will you make something of your strife and misery, to grow into something greater than the broken shards you have become?" His words call to every inch of the grand throne room and the Agni-Haidar watch their king and god, as well as his sole companion, with dark, unblinking eyes.

Eranthe is quiet for a stretch of time, her eyes lowered as she sorts through all the emotions which have overwhelmed her senses of late. She turns up her hands, looking at her palms for a time, the girl staring at them as if the answer to your question was written there upon her skin. "After Lys- ... after my husband... died, I did not know what to do. All I could see was blood. All I could feel was pain. I prayed to the Gods for answers, but none came. None that I could hear, anyway." She pauses here, looking at you in a quiet, curious way. After all, you are a God, right? Do you hear the pleas and questions of your children? Do they invade your thoughts? Do they flow through your veins? However, she presses on. "I thought maybe I would join him." Another pause now, her thoughts turning to that dark memory. The memory of that time she threatened to give herself over to oblivion. "I could not do it. For some reason." The girl lifts up a shoulder and then straightens her stance. "I have always hesitated. Always questioned whether or not my beliefs were correct or proper. I will not do that anymore. The place I have traveled to, come back from, prevents me from doing such a thing again." Now, her pale eyes focus on your face. "I will not be destroyed."

The sound of wings flapping fills the void of silence that falls upon the court after the echo from your words dies out. Those same ebon wings finally draw back against the God-King as Khalid's face is lit with a faint, small smile. "I am glad to hear this, Dea Acesian." Then suddenly, the Lord of Fire rises from his throne and begins to descend the stone steps of the dais. "Come with me," he instructs, "Dea. I wish to speak with you in private." A moment later, he amends for the silver and black attired guardsmen. "Alone." The Agni-Haidar stand at rigid attention.

Eranthe lets out a quiet roll of breath as that smile surfaces within your expression, tension leaving her shoulders and wings. It is not that your question weighed upon her. Rather, her relief stems from the fact that this is something she had not said aloud before. Hearing the words, feeling them move off her lips, mended her heart in ways that inner promises just could not. The girl blinks, however, when you rise and request her company in private. Her surprise is momentary, tucked away after a nervous twitch of her feathered limbs, and she simply nods. "As you wish."

Cloaked in the sheer blackness of his beautiful ebon feathers, Khalid strides towards the rear hallway that leads to the private chambers of the highest ranking members of Atesh-Gah. Along the walls, like deadly decorations, stand the grim and always-ready silver and black Agni-Haidar. They watch you with sharp, keen intent, unyielding and unforgiving. The embassy of the Varati Kingdom is not an inviting place for outsiders; like its culture, it shuns those not of the blood. Still, all part for the word and will of the God-King and as he enters his own chambers, the guards shut the doors behind you and stand vigil.

[Chambers of the God-King - Atesh-Gah - Haven]

Eranthe's steps are quiet, nearly soundless, as she follows you down the hall and into your chambers. Upon entering, she looks around with wide eyes, curious about her surroundings. She is still a young girl, after all, no matter how much the recent events have aged her and, therefore, continues to hold a bit of awe for the new and exotic. Never in her wildest imagination did she think that she would ever be alone with the God-King of the Varati. At least, she didn't imagine being able to alone with him and not get turned into a ball of flames. You have been contrary to almost everything she's been told about you but, even so, she never loses that respectful -- albeit shy -- politeness she's swathed herself in. Coming to a stop a few paces in, she dusts her hands along the side of her chimere. Waiting. You wished to speak with her alone?

Cutting his way through his own chambers, Khalid's booted steps are muffled a bit as they sink into the thick layers of rich, exotic carpets. The God-King pauses, bending at the waist, to capture a silver tray the holds two thin wine flutes and a crystal carafe filled to the neck with a red liquor. Having appropriated that which he desires, he makes his way towards the stone and iron balcony which connects to one wing of the chambers. Laying the tray on a small, ivory table, he begins to pour the red substance into the glasses.

Eranthe waits a time where she is, wondering if she should follow you in further without being asked. However, this indecision lasts only a moment or two before she is trailing you with slow steps. The girl clasps her hands before her, loosens them and then reaffirms her grip behind her back. Pale eyes watch you pour the drink with much the same shy awe with which she's observed everything else. She opens her mouth, hesitates, and then proceeds with her question. "What is the name of that drink?" A little nod to the rich, dark liquid within the carafe. "It is a Varati red wine. Bitter and strong to the taste, it is wholesome and fulfilling in the end. Much like my people, I would think." Khalid lifts the glasses, holding them by the stem with his fingers. The one in his left hand is offered to you. The one in his right hand is kept for himself. "I hope you will enjoy it. It is an acquired taste, as many things are in life." Fierce blue eyes stare fully into your own pale blues as he waits.

This is where Eranthe has trouble: etiquette and protocol. The girl accepts the glass, holding it carefully between thumb and forefinger. She waits, pausing uncertain. Should she drink first? Should she wait for you? An anxious little flick of her wings gives clue to her nervousness and her feathertips brush against a bowl on a nearby table, nearly knocking the delicate item to the floor. At that, she blushes and peers back at her clumsiness before returning sheepish eyes to you. "I am... sorry," she offers quietly. Licking her lips, she looks between her glass and your face, hesitating a moment longer before taking a cautious sip.

"Try not to break the furniture," notes Khalid, wryly. "That vase was made by a master shaper over seven hundred years ago. I miss her. I was rather fond of her talents." His tone is actually lightly teasing, even if he arches an eyebrow at the danger presented to his treasured items. Stepping clearly away from most breakables, he comments, "You do not need to stand on protocol, Dea. Drink and enjoy." Raising the flute to his own lips, he takes a long, full sip and falls silent for many moments, simply savoring the taste. "Have you seen or heard of the treaty between your people and my own?"

Eranthe tucks her wings in close, self-consciously, and begins to blush furiously before she catches the humor in your tone. The girl releases a quiet sigh, cradling her glass in close to her breast as her stance relaxes a bit and a smile curves across her lips. "I think allowing me that concession is more in your best interest than mine," she replies softly, following you away from all the fragile, breakable things within the room. She lifts her drink to her mouth once again, taking a longer sip this time. A pause, as she thoughtful purses her lips. "This wine is very good. Stronger than I am used to, but..." Another sip is stolen, and she nods. Yes. She likes it. The girl tilts her head and slowly nods at your next question, regaining some of her serious air. "Yes. I have heard of it."

"Do you understand why the war was started? And why I chose those terms for the treaty, Eranthe Martinia Acesian?" Khalid seems awfully fond of saying your entire name and he says it with a roll of the tongue, savoring every syllable. Lifting the glass to his own mouth again, he takes a larger, full sip from the glass. Some of the wine escapes to stain his dusky-hued lips with a red tint. Turning slightly away from you, he moves closer to the edge of the balcony and places his free hand on the railing. Fingers twine around the cold iron, while blue eyes cast far and wide, gazing into the dark, night sky. There is a slight chill in the spring air. Eranthe squints a little. Along with etiquette, politics isn't one of her strong points. If she wasn't as pretty as she is, one would have to wonder what Lysander saw in her. The girl thinks, not leaping to an answer right away, and then slowly shakes her head. "I am not entirely sure. I know that negotiations for peace where made before the war, and refused by the Empyreans." She peers down into her glass, at the ripples skating across the surface of the burgundy liquid, and decides another sip would be much enjoyed. Gulp. Returning pale eyes to you, she edges over closer but remains a respectable distance from you. "I am not very adept at politics but... perhaps, it was to prove that you would not stand for acts of aggression and pride?" She wrinkles her nose. That wasn't right, was it?

"You are close to the mark, Dea. Closer than my Pasha was. I am afraid I did not instruct him properly, but in all honesty, I did not expect him to succeed." Taking another sip of his wine, so that only a half-glass remains, Khalid explains, "To be a successful leader, one must be able to predict with a certain level of accuracy, what will happen in the future. With magic or without. Being a clairvoyant is obviously much easier." He clucks his tongue in a faint chuckle at this. "Regardless, you must understand what motivates people and why they will do things. In most cases, the end reason is power." His ebon wings stretch, as if yearning for flight and brush you briefly as they do.

Eranthe smiles, a muted expression that, nonetheless, conveys that she's pleased her answer was close. She rewards herself with another little sip from her glass, pale-blue eyes remaining on your dark form from over the rim. Listening to you, she licks her lips, tasting the memory of the wine she just drank, and settles a more serious look on her face. Serious, that is, until your feathers brush against her. The ebon tips drag up along her chest and then flick over her chin and nose, causing the young Dea to stumble back a surprised step or two. A slender hand rises up, rubs at the tip of her nose, but it is too late to prevent the sneeze. Ah-*choo*. With a watery-eyed blink, she freezes. Looks at you.

"My apologies," says Khalid, immediately. He chuckles again, as his blue eyes gaze upon your face. "You would think, that over these thousands of years, I would have gained better control over my wings. Yet, sometimes, they seem to have a will of their own." Smiling a little, he repeats, "You do not have to stand on protocol. You may even sneeze in my presence, if it is your inclination." His tone is very wry, to the point of being mirthful. "I find you an amiable companion, Dea." He glances back out towards the night sky, blue eyes gazing upon the full, white moon. "Power is the key to most things, Dea. Power is what most desire. I knew this and knew the war was inevitable, if I was to keep the Varati kingdom safe in the future. For we would surely have been attacked if I had not attacked first. And that is the first lesson of warfare; never fight defensively. You will never, ever win a defensive war."

Again, the young woman loosens the tension about her shoulders and wings, nodding with a shy smile when you remind her to abandon protocol. She slips her hand through her short hair, fingers combing through those jagged, golden locks, before she tips back the rest of her wine. Glancing about, she sets the glass down upon the nearest table, a soft *click* of crystal against wood occurring as she does so. "It is best to avoid them altogether, in my opinion," she states as she slowly draws up by your side. Turning her head, she regards the profile of your face with a soft, inward expression. Odd as it is, she finds you to be an amiable companion as well. Something she did not expect.

"I agree, but wars can be unavoidable. It is why I attacked first, however. It had nothing to do with you; I knew it would be war sooner or later." Khalid purses in his lips, tasting the remnants of the wine on his mouth. "Historians will look back on the war and wonder if it was justified. Many will say 'no' and label me a monster. Always the people must be satisfied with the moral justifications. Thousands have died in this war and cities are in ruins. They will ask: was it justified in response for such a small invasion?" Blue eyes, so wide and large, search the horizon for answers. "Yes. It was. Why? Because in my heart, I feel that if I had not launched this war, in a year or two hence, my own kingdom would have been attacked. And the war would have been ten times worse. A war of utter survival between two kingdoms that might have embroiled all the other races, as well. Millions would have died instead of thousands. Civilizations would have been threatened with extinction. I must balance such things. The death of thousands is a small price to pay for the potential survival of the world. And this is how I make such decisions. I must weigh the potential cost of the future versus the known cost of the present. It is such a difficult decision, but rulers must do such things."

Eranthe folds her hands before her and lowers her gaze. She is happy that she is not a ruler. Those are decisions which would kill her to make. A thousand deaths or a million, it's still blood on your conscience. Pale wings flicker in movement next to your dark ones, a chilled wind stirring the length of the girl's chimere and causing her to shiver. "I still do not understand," she murmurs quietly, still looking down with unfocused eyes, "...why an agreement could not be reached. Why would anyone chose war when they have the opportunity for peace right there in front of them?" The young widow presses her lips together, her mouth turning to a faint frown as she struggles against guilt again. "I know it was not the reason for the war but... I wish he had just left me to those Varati who shot me down. Without that aggression to get me back, this would have never have happened." Her frown deepens and she shakes her head. "Not now, at least."

"This is not true, Eranthe. You will not like to hear this, but your husband was either a willing pawn in a dangerous contest for world domination, or he was one of the actual masterminds. I will never know, for now he is dead. I suspect the former, if only because he was such a visible individual. Still, in either case, he cannot be forgiven." Khalid indulges in more of the red wine, almost draining the glass, before he lowers his hand and cradles the crystal close to his chest. He still gazes towards the darkness, as he is often wont to do, allowing you only a profile view of him. "I would have killed him readily, if I had the opportunity. I had considered even assassination, though at the time he was struck down, I had decided not to do so for I felt it would not necessarily help matters at the time. But make no mistake, Dea. You were a pawn. An excuse. A reason for war. Another would have been made if you did not exist." Finally, he cants his head so as to level that unflinching, blue gaze upon you. "And this is why you, and the Empyre, must grow strong. So never again can you be used in such a way. You must stand up to such wrongs."

Eranthe neither moves nor speaks for a long moment, her wings held rigid against her back. The mere mention of Lysander reopens a wound that has hardly begun to heal and the direction your words take her brings tears, her girl's eyes becoming a brilliant blue because of them. Eventually, she lifts a hand and rubs them away, quietly trying to gather herself to form some sort of reply. "I will not stand by and allow injustice to take place around me any longer." Soft. Like a whisper to a lover or a mother's lullaby to her baby, her voice is just a hush on the breeze. "As far as my husband is concerned..." Here she falters, her mouth continuing to ghost over words but only silence being delivered. She would have never believed it before but, now, she's not so sure. She just cannot bring herself to contest what you've said. Wiping the back of her fingers across her eyes, she finally adds in a tones so quiet they can barely be heard: "Whatever he did, he is dead now. Please don't say ... such things." 'I would have killed him readily' and 'I had considered even assassination' -- you speak the sentiments so casually. Now she turns away, walking back into the room slowly.

"Wait, Dea." Khalid turns swiftly to intercept your exit and, in the process, loses his grasp on his own wine glass. It falls to the ground, shattering into a thousand tiny shards, doused with the thick, red droplets of wine. He ignores this entirely as his right hand comes about to circle around your wrist. Holding you in his grasp, he says quietly, "I apologize. That was... unfeeling for me to say." His eyes find yours and they are bright too with powerful emotion. He is always a maelstrom of unrestrained and undefined emotions; his very form radiates with this chaotic energy. "I am ancient and... distanced. I have seen almost all I have ever cared for wither and die away under the ravages of time. It is sometimes hard for me to relate to the deaths of others. This is my own failing."

Eranthe is startled, both by the shattering glass and the sudden hold you have on her wrist. The poor girl jumps, her wings snapping out to their full span, and she watches you with wide, wide eyes. Curling her other hand over her breast, she stays very quiet and very still ... still aside from her chest rising and falling with her rapid breaths. Her gaze, bright and touched with tears, races over your visage and draws in the emotion that's reflected back at her. After your rush of words, she nods, although her expression grows even sadder still. "I cannot ... imagine ... what it must be like," she murmurs. What it must be like to watch all that you love die. And in this moment, her soul lays open to you. Bare. She possesses such a deep compassion that all of the world's ills hurt her to the core. Break her heart.

"I cling to sanity with bared teeth, holding on with every ounce of strength I have in my being. I exist now only to do certain deeds, to make right great wrongs that have been allowed over these centuries. It is my only purpose; I cannot exist for anything less." Khalid's eyes are a deep, full blue, so very large and intense. "I am unlike any being ever to exist in time. I have become something less and more than once what I was." His mouth opens, as if he wishes to speak more on the topic, then closes again. Long, pained moments pass, before he says suddenly, "A kerchief. Give me a kerchief, please."

A kerchief? A kerchief. You would figure, with all the crying she's been doing lately, that she would have one with her. Eranthe looks momentarily befuddled, as if the request was spoken in some sort of foreign language she doesn't understand. Her wet eyes, with lashes darkened and clinging together because of her tears, blink a few times before they widen, the girl then looking about herself as she tries to figure out what to do. She cannot offer her sleeve -- even though he said she need not observe usual etiquette and protocol, that would be just a little too much. So, what should she do? Glancing to one side, she reaches a hand to take hold of the thin wrap thrown about her shoulders, the girl pulling it off with the quiet hush of silk against silk and offers it to you.

Accepting the wrap in his left hand, Khalid releases your wrist with his right. "Thank you, Dea." Once free, the right hand slides down to his sash and removes the second, smaller ebon blade with a slight 'swish' as stone brushes silk. With another two 'swishes,' that blade rends the cloth of your wrap until it is only a quarter in size of what it once was. Gripping the remnants of that silk in his left hand, he reverses his hold so that his wrist is bared open to all. Boots crunch against broken glass as he shifts positions. Blue eyes meet your own for a moment, before casting downwards at the rich, brown, naked skin. Once more, the blade is used, slashing there. As ebon stone slices immortal flesh, fire erupts from the wound! Only for a moment do those flames escape; Khalid's brow furrows in concentration and soon the fires turn to blood. "Your wrist, Eranthe Martinia Acesian. Trust in me," speaks the Varati God-King as he raises his gaze to you once more.

Eranthe's wings are still spread wide, the pale feathers betraying an occasional shiver. It's one thing to be told that a person is a God; it's another thing to have that fact demonstrated to you. As she witnesses flames springing up from the wound you cut into your flesh, she catches her breath, holds it and then releases it out in a rush. The rise and fall of her chest quickens, her heart pounding so hard that the sound of it is all that fills her ears. Part of her wants to edge away, to run, flee ... but the mix of fear and fascination keeps her rooted to her spot. Then you ask for her wrist and her eyes go wider still. She is frightened, there is no doubt about that, and the slight girl is shaking practically from head to toe. However, after a moment's hesitation, she does as you ask ... offering out her hand, turned so that the porcelain-like skin of her wrist exposed.

"There will be pain, but all changes occur with a little pain." Those words are said as if a prayer of sorts, before Khalid quickly applies the bloodied blade against your own, pale, tender flesh. So sharp and so quick, it is already over. A neat, small wound has been slashed into your wrist and the black, divine blade is replaced once more at the hip of the God-King. Shifting the cloth into his now free hand, he dabs first at his wound, then at your own. It stems the blood from both and the wrap is now stained with the essence of both King and Dea. He raises his gaze to you once more, even as he works off a golden ring from one finger. In the center of that ring lies a stone so black it seems to steal light from around it. It is a match to the stone in his crown and that of the blades.

The shiver of fear can be felt when you take hold of her wrist, the girl making a tiny lurch forward as if to change her mind in the very last moment. However, she doesn't offer any sort of protest and bears the slice into her flesh with only a wince and a sharp intake of breath. Then, it is over -- that wasn't so bad -- and she watches with quiet eyes as you press the cloth against her wound and your own. Once you are done, she pulls back her hand, holding it close to her chest as her eyes lift to find yours. Curiosity has joined the soft compassion that hurts for the world, Eranthe watching you with shy interest.

"House Acesian's cloth and colors. Your blood and my own. Strung through a ring of a god and a king." Even as he speaks, Khalid pushes the bloodied cloth through the gold band and ties both ends against one another. This done, he hands to you the items. "Any Varati who sees this ring will know it is mine, for it is my stone and only I possess it. You shall come to no harm." Ebon wings twitch in agitation, as if screaming their protest at such a gift. "And now you bear my blood, Eranthe Martinia Acesian. Mingled with your own. Tied together within the ring. Think on what that may mean to you and the future. Of our people, both. Also think on the treaty and why I asked for each of those points. Some measures will be obvious; others have deeper significance." Finally, he glances down at the wound at your wrist. His own has already healed. "Before you leave me, my Dea, let me heal your wound." His free hand extends to you, anew.

Eranthe forgets to breathe at some point, holding the air within her lungs as she listens to your words. As she accepts the ring and cloth. Only with the flicker of black motion, of your wings moving behind you, does she remember to release her breath and draw in another one. She looks down at the gift she holds in her hands and begins to protest, readying her 'I couldn't possibly accept this' speech. But something makes her stop. Something makes her put those words away and she just nods to that which you have said. However, when you offer to heal the slice across her flesh, she politely shakes her head. "No," is returned in soft tones. "...there are some pains which should be remembered, not brushed aside." Her eyes touch down, run along that wound, before she looks back up at you. "Thank you, Amir-al," is spoken before she goes to kneel, to show her respect towards you before she takes her leave.

"Rise," cuts in Khalid, before you fall to your knees. "You have shown me enough respect for one night." He graces you with a full smile, and in that moment, the other side of him is seen. A side few ever acknowledge; a benign and decent side. Deadly, ruthless and even cruel, he is capable of generosity and goodwill, as well. His eyes dart towards the wound as he murmurs, "Very well. I was going to kiss it and make it better, but I will adhere to your wishes." Was he jesting? There is humor in his blue eyes, but his tone sounded utterly serious. Lifting that hand that was offered to you, to your head instead, his fingers brush lightly at the truncated golden locks. "You have harmed yourself in your misery. You are more beautiful without these particular wounds. Consider healing this for yourself. In the future. When you can cast aside such self-inflicted injuries." Curling a single strand of blonde hair around his finger for a but a second, he drops his hand to his side, again. "That is all, Dea. I thank you for visiting me. You have fulfilled this article of the treaty. Know that if ever you wish to speak with me again, all you must do is send me a missive and you will be invited to Atesh-Gah or wherever I may reside. Or, I shall come to you."

Eranthe smiles upon you -- her husband's most hated enemy; the most reviled foe of the Empyre. She smiles upon you. Your words and touch are met only by that soft expression and she nods her head when you finish speaking. "Thank you," she says again, her voice still held by soft tones. And with that, she crosses the room and heads out the door, meeting the Agni-Haidar in the hallway to lead her out.

FIN  

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