Post by Shipfish on Feb 29, 2012 19:43:31 GMT -6
An interesting assignment, writing an autobiography. He knew that the others would probably take it lightly, but it appealed to something in him. He liked to tell stories, to watch his words change people's emotions. He liked to laugh and to cry and to reminisce.
In school Kemorabi was not the best. At sports, Kemorabi was not the best. Kemorabi was not the best lover. Kemorabi was not the tallest member of his family, and neither was he the shortest. His family was diverse, varied. Each member had their strengths and weaknesses, their highlights. Different siblings held different titles; strongest, smartest, fastest, most beautiful. Kemorabi held no special distinctions other than being a pleasantly middling-high mix of all possible traits. He may have been good, but he was not the best.
It was to this end that the family decided that they would not pay for his higher education. Though money was by no means scarce, they felt he would better serve them elsewhere. They decided he had no future in competitive sports, despite his not-so-small skill with the ancient arakh. Kemorabi's future was decided: after high school, he would join the military, where he could rise within the ranks.
Kemorabi knew his family would choose the best thing for him, but he was surprised by this route. What good could a free Cairan do in such a restrictive environment as the military? Still, he held his tongue. It was not his place to defy the family's will.
Kemorabi was still only a sophomore when his fate was decided. Immediately, he was enrolled in the pre-military courses. There, he made a few friends and found his first true lover. By no means his first pail, she was his first flush companion. Despite, or perhaps in spite of, her outward appearance of a studious school-girl, Daaruine was known to have a bit of... bite. Kemorabi learned that pain could have interesting uses. This time was when something snapped in him and he could smell sights and taste sounds and see tastes.
It hurt. That something, that incomparable wall, held back pure sensation that was apt to drive trolls mad. Kemorabi reveled in the blurring of the world, loving the taste of moonlight and the feeling of an orchestra on his skin. He didn't know that what he felt was only the surface.
He coasted for his remaining two years. Kemorabi saw no reason to keep his grades as high as they had been. The only class he enjoyed was Culture Perspectives, a highlight of the different ways of life on other planets. The entire concept intrigued him. Kemorabi took the class twice, under the same teacher.
Kemorabi was not too sad when his time was up. He tried to think of it as an adventure, as the next great thing. He left his family, he left Daaruine, he left his people to face the greater universe.
They did not do things the way they did on Cairo on the boot-camp world. That place was a soggy bog, awful for the skin, and infested with poisonous insects. Even as the senior officers demeaned the new recruits, the freshies were forced to do a great deal of manual labor and not given enough time to sleep. Every night, Kemorabi fell into an exhausted stupor.
Things changed a little when the recruits were split up. The performance of each was scrunitized using several tests, including ones for memory as well as physical exams. Kemorabi was placed among the group for specialized combat, specifically the hand-to-hand section. It turned out he had developed a talent for disarming and neutralizing foes, though he often had to be pried off the defeated enemy. He rather thought that perhaps all that time with Daaruine had actually become a useful set of skills.
His sparring partners always respected him. Whether it was because of the way he held them after rendering them harmless or because of the sharp way his teeth felt on their skin he never knew.
He was selected for a prestigious bodyguard duty. After barely three months in traning, both basic and specialized, he was shipped off to some floating hunk of metal to keep dignitaries safe from those who wished them harm. The ponderous, slow, ornate march of the governmental apparatus irked him at a deep level. He wanted to act proactively against those who wished his charges harm, but he was not allowed.
To begin with, he protected only those with the least risk of attack. When incidents did not occur, Kemorabi was moved up, to allow for the fresher recruits to protect the lower levels. Apparently there was a ridiculously high level of turnover in this branch of the military. Kemorabi had an uncanny ability to spot assassins from a distance. He protested that it was insane that no one else could see them. He discovered that Cairans were much more concentrated in the highest levels of this duty, with their advantage of height and insight into the workings of troll minds.
But even among them, he was a bit of an outsider. His sanity was thinking very hard about leaving home, to avoid that awful blending morass of sensation. Whenever he killed, he fell into a broken state that could only be fixed with touch, but even his people knew he needed something more. He drifted.
A general came one day to pick her guard for a formal function. Her words screamed indifference even as her body told of indecision. Kemorabi did not leave his seat in the common area. He was never chosen for these things. Still, he wondered about that startling contrast. Why did she work so hard to conceal her emotions and yet show it all over herself?
As he looked closer, Kemorabi realized something. That faint tinge to the skin around her eyes, in veins on the back of her hands. This general (for a general she must be, the order of the pins on her uniform declared it so) was of an unusually low blood. She could not have been higher than his own teal. Kemorabi's interest was sufficiently piqued.
He joined the line of people chosen by his commanding officer, even though he had not explicitly been picked out. The Lawgiver eyed him a bit warily. Kemorabi softened his eyes in the general's direction, lifting his lips ever so slightly into a smile. The officer grinned, amused. Their shared Cairan heritage let them say many things not immediately discussable in public.
Even so, as the Lawgiver spoke individually to each bodyguard before letting them speak to the general, she told him to be careful. This one was Kyachril, and she was looking for an extremely long-term guard. If he fancied her, the Lawgiver warned, it would not be a short thing.
Kyachril, mused Kemorabi as he spoke with her. The name was strong, and it invoked images of defeat and anguish of enemies. No matter how hard he thought, Kemorabi could not remember tell of a single loss to her name. The Catalyst, the others called her, although she had not officially taken a title. Kyachril was a quantity that changed but was not changed by action.
He was not deemed acceptable. That did not bother him: he thought he know knew more about that person than anyone else in his entire barrack. He knew she was an excellent fighter, skilled in moves that cancelled thee enemy's attack and turned it against them. He knew the small movements of her mouth as she frowned and smiled. Kemorabi was very much intrigued by the marvelous enigma in front of him.
But the next day she was back, saying that the choice had not been made. There would be a more... visceral process today. She thanked the Lawgiver, and proceeded directly into the common room, against protocol. Fight me, she said.
No one moved. Why would they fight a potential employer? They collectively shuffled their feet, hung their heads. What to do? Kemorabi was confused.
With a sort of roar, a young troll flung himself at Kyachril, weapon in hand. Moving only as far as she needed out of the troll's way, Kyachril let him overbalance and bring himself down. The ice having been broken, more guards began to attack, the Catalyst holding her own. Kemorabi saw that none of the older guards were participating.
What should we do? he asked. The Lawgiver was rubbing her knuckles, a familiar tic. We stop it, I suppose. You get her, I discipline? she replied promptly. It was decided.
The once-organized fight had broken into more of an all-out brawl. Some of the soldiers were fighting each other rather than Kyachril: Kemorabi ignored them. He went instead for the heart of the dance, the whirling dealer of pain in the center. She was taking on three trolls at once, all of them young but skilled. Two were devoid of weapons, but the other held a dagger and wielded it well.
That one was easy. On his left side, fifth rib, a gunshot wound with a nerve bundle. A sideways jab of the thumb completely froze the troll, his spine contorting sideways in an attempt to get away from Kemorabi's fingers. He went down, unable to breathe. Kemorabi estimated he had about thirty seconds until that troll could move enough to attack again, but he did not expect to need that much time. He picked up the knife where it lay.
The next troll was even easier. As he was thrown back by one of Kyachril's lithe parries, Kemorabi trapped one of his arms behind his back and pulled. The knife, in his other hand, went to the troll's throat, and forced him backwards. Kemorabi whispered reminders of the boy's duty in his ear, and threats as well, as he dragged him to a couch. The youngling was thrown on the couch, where he stayed.
Kyachril was able to subdue the third on her own. Kemorabi motioned for her to follow him, and exited the room through a door to the dormitories. He disposed of the knife by stabbing it into the doorframe. Kyachril dodged around the remnants of the brawl and allowed his lead.
They chatted pleasantly in the hall, waiting for the Lawgiver to finish yelling at the people who participated in the fight. Kyachril informed him rather bluntly that he would be the one who guarded her in the future. Kemorabi was secretly pleased. Kyachril was an interesting person, one of the sort that he liked to talk to. He liked her, he thought, but it was the sort of slow like that didn't need immediate expression. He was unused to that sort of like.
The Lawgiver finished her lecture. One by one, chastised trolls filed past the door into their dormitories. Kemorabi made sure to look with disapproval on them all. It was beyond him that trolls used their energy to fight when they could be doing much more pleasing things. The knife stayed stuck in the frame of the door until the owner slumped by. Sorry, he said, and presented the weapon to Kemorabi. Kemorabi only sneered and refused the offering of peace.
Kyachril watched on, without any expression on her face. Kemorabi realized he was still standing between her and the door, a sort of instinctual protection. Elegantly, he showed her the way out.
You are coming with me, the Catalyst said. I must get my things, he responded. I will wait then, she said matter-of-factly. Kemorabi went and got his needful items as quickly as he was able. The Lawgiver stopped him. She offered you the job? She was a bit sad, she had known Kemorabi for a sweep now and they were good friends. Yes. I can't exactly refuse, not after that, can I? He kissed her on the cheek, and lightly on the lips. I'll go get your arakh from the armory, she sighed.
Kemorabi felt awful simply leaving her like that. He sighed, wistful. They would correspond, of course, but eventually it would drift off. Relationships without touch never lasted long among Cairans. He hoped she found her true love one day, preferrably not among the ranks. It was simply too easy to get nicked by a poisonous dagger, or shot from afar, or suffer some other grisly method of demise on this job.
He collected his small set of personal belongings and met Kyachril by the exit. The Lawgiver presented him his arakh, safely nestled in its case. Kemorabi thanked her in their native tongue, adding both a formal and a familiar goodbye. She smiled. She will be good for you, I think, she stated, still in Cairan. Kemorabi drew her into a hug, whispering apologies in her ear. But he had to leave, and leave he did.
Kyachril was nicer to him than some of his employers had been, but she was more distant than he had hoped. She practiced her martial arts nearly everyday in the barrackship's gym. Kemorabi shadowed her everywhere, but felt no compulsion to participate in her daily activities. He was mildly disappointed that she did not appear to have pale or flush feelings for him. Spending many sweeps with her may get mildly boring.
Kyachril had other officers directly under her, on a sort of council. In fact, mused Kemorabi, the group would do rather well on its own. She had probably thought of the entire group being marooned on a backwater world by a whim of the Empress, and developed the crew as a contigency. Though there was not an official order, a very clear hierarchy had emerged. A quiet, highblooded troll served as Kyachril's second in command. A very young troll with an incredible talent for pyrotechnics was next, and after her a serious troll that could hit any target from almost any distance with almost any weapon, though he preferred his bow. There were others, but he had not met them yet.
Kemorabi loved to watch the Catalyst train. Her weapon was an ancient one, just like his, and she wielded it very well. He admired her grace on the mat, her economy of movement; and delighted in the tiny flourishes she added when she was not practicing for precision. During those times, Kemorabi wanted to teach her a dance, just to watch her. But when Kyachril stepped off the mat, she became tense, almost stiff. He thought also of sparring with her, but it was beyond his place as her guard.
The turning point came only a few perigees later. Kyachril was made to attend a formal function, a sort of fancy party. As a bodyguard, Kemorabi was allowed to wear whatever clothes he wished, but Kyachril had to wear a very formal inflexible uniform. At the function, the Catalyst had to mingle among the other officers on the floor, an activity that made Kemorabi very nervous. For a while, everything was fine.
But then she struck. Everything was so vivid afterwards: The wandering waitress serving drinks poured something into the cup she handed to Kyachril. Kemorabi upturned the tray of glasses, sending mildly alcoholic rain pattering down on the nearest trolls. Even before the tray had hit the ground, the waitress had drawn a glinting knife from her dress and was aiming for Kyachril. In a single wide motion, Kemorabi knocked the blade from her hand and pushed her back into a group of younger officers. Somewhere in the exchange, everything became that particular flavorsound of mixed sensation.
She fled, but did not get very far. Kemorabi was on her within three steps, using his height to an extreme advantage. He caught her by the shoulder, whirling her around so he could properly restrain her. She came spinning with another knife in her hand. Kemorabi's perception slowed, and he dodged the strike with an elegant spin that brought him closer to the target. The waitress tried again to stab him, but he caught her wrist and bent it back until she dropped the dagger. With her free hand, she drew yet another weapon from some secret compartment.
He did not think, only acted. His teeth found her throat and she did not last long. Afterward, he slumped in a sort of daze, kneeling. Her blood was on his hands, on his shirt, on his lips. Kemorabi let the body of the assassin roll out of his arms, leaving it splayed on the floor. He looked at his hands. The brilliant cerulean exploded across his retinas, and once it was color it was scent and touch and sound. Absently, Kemorabi wiped his hands off on his pants, wincing at the sharp sound the texture made. He wiped his mouth and spat out something that was not his flesh.
The people who had seen were uneasy. They mumbled amongst themselves, such a dull grey thing, an irritating sandpaper. Kemorabi wished they would stop. He growled, low but loud, so that the redness was a counterpoint to the grey murmurs. The scent of fear washed over him, clear and loud, and he grinned.
Kyachril came to stand in front of him, unmindful of the body. Are you injured? she asked. Her voice was good, like tart apples. Kemorabi answered no, though he did not know if he had spoken it. He shook his head. That azure shade still sung to him, filled his mind. Tentatively, the Catalyst offered him a hand up. He looked at it in confusion.
She loosened his hands from where, forgotten, they clenched on his thighs. Kyachril's skin had its own taste, and that more than anything made his fingers relax. She guided him to a standing position, where he swayed. Step by agonizing, blinding step, the Catalyst guided him to a more empty spot, and set him in a chair.
There was no room for thought in Kemorabi's mind. Everything whirled around, confused, and mingled with everything else. It hurt, it hurt more than anything had hurt in his life. Every nerve in his body felt raw, bruised, flayed; every signal they sent jumped into that awful pit and came out dripping in colors and resounding with noise and stinking with scent. He instinctively did not move, not even a twitch. Eventually though, after someone had dealt with the body, Kyachril led him to the ship that would take them home.
The trip was short, but it seemed to take forever. After the constant hubbub of the function, it was too quiet in the cruiser. Even the mainship, with the omni-present hum of engines, was too little. Kemorabi found himself staring at his hands again. No one had cleaned them, but the blood was beginning to dry. He wiped some of it off his face, the sticky flakes falling to the floor. Kyachril stared at him in concern.
He found himself washing in his own bathroom. It must have been his, there was his toothbrush. Without thought, he looked at his reflection. A startling amount of blueish blood encrusted his face, bright against the gray of his skin, high against low. How long had it been there? It fell off with the barest touch, leaving tiny blue specks speckling his sink. Hours, then, and his senses were still confused? Kemorabi panicked. It never lasted this long, never. Quickly he finished scrubbing his hands and face, the cold water stinging both his skin and his tastebuds. He used his toothbrush vigorously, more than once, until every last vestige of blood was gone. He found a mostly clean pair of pants and shirt, cleaner than the current pair at any rate.
Kemorabi stumbled out of his bathroom, his balance a little off in the absence of any pressing emotional goals. He was incredibly surprised to see Kyachril sitting rather awkwardly on his couch. She turned to look at him, and relaxed when he looked relatively normal. Are you... ok? She asked. A yes formed at his lips, but the whirling morass of his mind thought better of it and instead enunciated a no. No? Her eyebrows came together.
It's... he began. Everything.... he continued. I don't know how to explain it, he finished. Nothing is right. Everything is blending together. He could not help but sway just a little. He walked unsteadily to his couch, collapsing onto it. he held his head in his hands.
Do you need anything? Do you have medicine? Water? She began to get up, but Kemorabi made an inarticulate noise and caught her arm before she was all the way up. Please, he said. Don't leave, please, you are helping. She cautiously sat back down. Kemorabi revelled in the way her scent, the pure and simple smell of her, helped calm the raging tempest of his mind. Perhaps if he was closer... He scooted in towards her, entwining a hand with hers and resting his head on her shoulder. Ra, how did that one scent fix everything that was wrong? He wanted even closer, but Kyachril had tensed up with the first movement.
I'm... I'm sorry, it's just that you help and... you smell good. He finished simply, unable to think of what he was going to say. She relaxed a little bit, allowing more of that delectable smell to come out. That wall slowly reasserted itself. Kemorabi found himself dozing off, especially after Kyachril adjusted herself to make both of them more comfortable.
At around midnight, he awoke to find the Catalyst sound asleep in his embrace. He found no trace of crossed wires in his head. He disentangled himself. After a moment of thought, Kemorabi gathered Kyachril in his arms as gently as he was able and deposited her in his bed. He climbed in right beside her, making sure she was as comfortable as possible before allowing himself to fall asleep for the night.
That incident changed things between them. Kemorabi figured they were moirails, and Kyachril was indifferent to the whole edifice of quadrants, so it worked out well. Quietly, he began to see more of her, and even began to spar with her as he once had wanted. Soon enough, Kemorabi had earned a pretigious place in the hierarchy, that of Second-in-command, or just Second.
Oh Ra, no one would ever trudge through that entire thing. He had a feeling it was incredibly awful. Still, it was nice to have his own life story laid out in front of him, easy to read through. He saved the document and sent it off, before turning down the light and preparing for bed.
In school Kemorabi was not the best. At sports, Kemorabi was not the best. Kemorabi was not the best lover. Kemorabi was not the tallest member of his family, and neither was he the shortest. His family was diverse, varied. Each member had their strengths and weaknesses, their highlights. Different siblings held different titles; strongest, smartest, fastest, most beautiful. Kemorabi held no special distinctions other than being a pleasantly middling-high mix of all possible traits. He may have been good, but he was not the best.
It was to this end that the family decided that they would not pay for his higher education. Though money was by no means scarce, they felt he would better serve them elsewhere. They decided he had no future in competitive sports, despite his not-so-small skill with the ancient arakh. Kemorabi's future was decided: after high school, he would join the military, where he could rise within the ranks.
Kemorabi knew his family would choose the best thing for him, but he was surprised by this route. What good could a free Cairan do in such a restrictive environment as the military? Still, he held his tongue. It was not his place to defy the family's will.
Kemorabi was still only a sophomore when his fate was decided. Immediately, he was enrolled in the pre-military courses. There, he made a few friends and found his first true lover. By no means his first pail, she was his first flush companion. Despite, or perhaps in spite of, her outward appearance of a studious school-girl, Daaruine was known to have a bit of... bite. Kemorabi learned that pain could have interesting uses. This time was when something snapped in him and he could smell sights and taste sounds and see tastes.
It hurt. That something, that incomparable wall, held back pure sensation that was apt to drive trolls mad. Kemorabi reveled in the blurring of the world, loving the taste of moonlight and the feeling of an orchestra on his skin. He didn't know that what he felt was only the surface.
He coasted for his remaining two years. Kemorabi saw no reason to keep his grades as high as they had been. The only class he enjoyed was Culture Perspectives, a highlight of the different ways of life on other planets. The entire concept intrigued him. Kemorabi took the class twice, under the same teacher.
Kemorabi was not too sad when his time was up. He tried to think of it as an adventure, as the next great thing. He left his family, he left Daaruine, he left his people to face the greater universe.
They did not do things the way they did on Cairo on the boot-camp world. That place was a soggy bog, awful for the skin, and infested with poisonous insects. Even as the senior officers demeaned the new recruits, the freshies were forced to do a great deal of manual labor and not given enough time to sleep. Every night, Kemorabi fell into an exhausted stupor.
Things changed a little when the recruits were split up. The performance of each was scrunitized using several tests, including ones for memory as well as physical exams. Kemorabi was placed among the group for specialized combat, specifically the hand-to-hand section. It turned out he had developed a talent for disarming and neutralizing foes, though he often had to be pried off the defeated enemy. He rather thought that perhaps all that time with Daaruine had actually become a useful set of skills.
His sparring partners always respected him. Whether it was because of the way he held them after rendering them harmless or because of the sharp way his teeth felt on their skin he never knew.
He was selected for a prestigious bodyguard duty. After barely three months in traning, both basic and specialized, he was shipped off to some floating hunk of metal to keep dignitaries safe from those who wished them harm. The ponderous, slow, ornate march of the governmental apparatus irked him at a deep level. He wanted to act proactively against those who wished his charges harm, but he was not allowed.
To begin with, he protected only those with the least risk of attack. When incidents did not occur, Kemorabi was moved up, to allow for the fresher recruits to protect the lower levels. Apparently there was a ridiculously high level of turnover in this branch of the military. Kemorabi had an uncanny ability to spot assassins from a distance. He protested that it was insane that no one else could see them. He discovered that Cairans were much more concentrated in the highest levels of this duty, with their advantage of height and insight into the workings of troll minds.
But even among them, he was a bit of an outsider. His sanity was thinking very hard about leaving home, to avoid that awful blending morass of sensation. Whenever he killed, he fell into a broken state that could only be fixed with touch, but even his people knew he needed something more. He drifted.
A general came one day to pick her guard for a formal function. Her words screamed indifference even as her body told of indecision. Kemorabi did not leave his seat in the common area. He was never chosen for these things. Still, he wondered about that startling contrast. Why did she work so hard to conceal her emotions and yet show it all over herself?
As he looked closer, Kemorabi realized something. That faint tinge to the skin around her eyes, in veins on the back of her hands. This general (for a general she must be, the order of the pins on her uniform declared it so) was of an unusually low blood. She could not have been higher than his own teal. Kemorabi's interest was sufficiently piqued.
He joined the line of people chosen by his commanding officer, even though he had not explicitly been picked out. The Lawgiver eyed him a bit warily. Kemorabi softened his eyes in the general's direction, lifting his lips ever so slightly into a smile. The officer grinned, amused. Their shared Cairan heritage let them say many things not immediately discussable in public.
Even so, as the Lawgiver spoke individually to each bodyguard before letting them speak to the general, she told him to be careful. This one was Kyachril, and she was looking for an extremely long-term guard. If he fancied her, the Lawgiver warned, it would not be a short thing.
Kyachril, mused Kemorabi as he spoke with her. The name was strong, and it invoked images of defeat and anguish of enemies. No matter how hard he thought, Kemorabi could not remember tell of a single loss to her name. The Catalyst, the others called her, although she had not officially taken a title. Kyachril was a quantity that changed but was not changed by action.
He was not deemed acceptable. That did not bother him: he thought he know knew more about that person than anyone else in his entire barrack. He knew she was an excellent fighter, skilled in moves that cancelled thee enemy's attack and turned it against them. He knew the small movements of her mouth as she frowned and smiled. Kemorabi was very much intrigued by the marvelous enigma in front of him.
But the next day she was back, saying that the choice had not been made. There would be a more... visceral process today. She thanked the Lawgiver, and proceeded directly into the common room, against protocol. Fight me, she said.
No one moved. Why would they fight a potential employer? They collectively shuffled their feet, hung their heads. What to do? Kemorabi was confused.
With a sort of roar, a young troll flung himself at Kyachril, weapon in hand. Moving only as far as she needed out of the troll's way, Kyachril let him overbalance and bring himself down. The ice having been broken, more guards began to attack, the Catalyst holding her own. Kemorabi saw that none of the older guards were participating.
What should we do? he asked. The Lawgiver was rubbing her knuckles, a familiar tic. We stop it, I suppose. You get her, I discipline? she replied promptly. It was decided.
The once-organized fight had broken into more of an all-out brawl. Some of the soldiers were fighting each other rather than Kyachril: Kemorabi ignored them. He went instead for the heart of the dance, the whirling dealer of pain in the center. She was taking on three trolls at once, all of them young but skilled. Two were devoid of weapons, but the other held a dagger and wielded it well.
That one was easy. On his left side, fifth rib, a gunshot wound with a nerve bundle. A sideways jab of the thumb completely froze the troll, his spine contorting sideways in an attempt to get away from Kemorabi's fingers. He went down, unable to breathe. Kemorabi estimated he had about thirty seconds until that troll could move enough to attack again, but he did not expect to need that much time. He picked up the knife where it lay.
The next troll was even easier. As he was thrown back by one of Kyachril's lithe parries, Kemorabi trapped one of his arms behind his back and pulled. The knife, in his other hand, went to the troll's throat, and forced him backwards. Kemorabi whispered reminders of the boy's duty in his ear, and threats as well, as he dragged him to a couch. The youngling was thrown on the couch, where he stayed.
Kyachril was able to subdue the third on her own. Kemorabi motioned for her to follow him, and exited the room through a door to the dormitories. He disposed of the knife by stabbing it into the doorframe. Kyachril dodged around the remnants of the brawl and allowed his lead.
They chatted pleasantly in the hall, waiting for the Lawgiver to finish yelling at the people who participated in the fight. Kyachril informed him rather bluntly that he would be the one who guarded her in the future. Kemorabi was secretly pleased. Kyachril was an interesting person, one of the sort that he liked to talk to. He liked her, he thought, but it was the sort of slow like that didn't need immediate expression. He was unused to that sort of like.
The Lawgiver finished her lecture. One by one, chastised trolls filed past the door into their dormitories. Kemorabi made sure to look with disapproval on them all. It was beyond him that trolls used their energy to fight when they could be doing much more pleasing things. The knife stayed stuck in the frame of the door until the owner slumped by. Sorry, he said, and presented the weapon to Kemorabi. Kemorabi only sneered and refused the offering of peace.
Kyachril watched on, without any expression on her face. Kemorabi realized he was still standing between her and the door, a sort of instinctual protection. Elegantly, he showed her the way out.
You are coming with me, the Catalyst said. I must get my things, he responded. I will wait then, she said matter-of-factly. Kemorabi went and got his needful items as quickly as he was able. The Lawgiver stopped him. She offered you the job? She was a bit sad, she had known Kemorabi for a sweep now and they were good friends. Yes. I can't exactly refuse, not after that, can I? He kissed her on the cheek, and lightly on the lips. I'll go get your arakh from the armory, she sighed.
Kemorabi felt awful simply leaving her like that. He sighed, wistful. They would correspond, of course, but eventually it would drift off. Relationships without touch never lasted long among Cairans. He hoped she found her true love one day, preferrably not among the ranks. It was simply too easy to get nicked by a poisonous dagger, or shot from afar, or suffer some other grisly method of demise on this job.
He collected his small set of personal belongings and met Kyachril by the exit. The Lawgiver presented him his arakh, safely nestled in its case. Kemorabi thanked her in their native tongue, adding both a formal and a familiar goodbye. She smiled. She will be good for you, I think, she stated, still in Cairan. Kemorabi drew her into a hug, whispering apologies in her ear. But he had to leave, and leave he did.
Kyachril was nicer to him than some of his employers had been, but she was more distant than he had hoped. She practiced her martial arts nearly everyday in the barrackship's gym. Kemorabi shadowed her everywhere, but felt no compulsion to participate in her daily activities. He was mildly disappointed that she did not appear to have pale or flush feelings for him. Spending many sweeps with her may get mildly boring.
Kyachril had other officers directly under her, on a sort of council. In fact, mused Kemorabi, the group would do rather well on its own. She had probably thought of the entire group being marooned on a backwater world by a whim of the Empress, and developed the crew as a contigency. Though there was not an official order, a very clear hierarchy had emerged. A quiet, highblooded troll served as Kyachril's second in command. A very young troll with an incredible talent for pyrotechnics was next, and after her a serious troll that could hit any target from almost any distance with almost any weapon, though he preferred his bow. There were others, but he had not met them yet.
Kemorabi loved to watch the Catalyst train. Her weapon was an ancient one, just like his, and she wielded it very well. He admired her grace on the mat, her economy of movement; and delighted in the tiny flourishes she added when she was not practicing for precision. During those times, Kemorabi wanted to teach her a dance, just to watch her. But when Kyachril stepped off the mat, she became tense, almost stiff. He thought also of sparring with her, but it was beyond his place as her guard.
The turning point came only a few perigees later. Kyachril was made to attend a formal function, a sort of fancy party. As a bodyguard, Kemorabi was allowed to wear whatever clothes he wished, but Kyachril had to wear a very formal inflexible uniform. At the function, the Catalyst had to mingle among the other officers on the floor, an activity that made Kemorabi very nervous. For a while, everything was fine.
But then she struck. Everything was so vivid afterwards: The wandering waitress serving drinks poured something into the cup she handed to Kyachril. Kemorabi upturned the tray of glasses, sending mildly alcoholic rain pattering down on the nearest trolls. Even before the tray had hit the ground, the waitress had drawn a glinting knife from her dress and was aiming for Kyachril. In a single wide motion, Kemorabi knocked the blade from her hand and pushed her back into a group of younger officers. Somewhere in the exchange, everything became that particular flavorsound of mixed sensation.
She fled, but did not get very far. Kemorabi was on her within three steps, using his height to an extreme advantage. He caught her by the shoulder, whirling her around so he could properly restrain her. She came spinning with another knife in her hand. Kemorabi's perception slowed, and he dodged the strike with an elegant spin that brought him closer to the target. The waitress tried again to stab him, but he caught her wrist and bent it back until she dropped the dagger. With her free hand, she drew yet another weapon from some secret compartment.
He did not think, only acted. His teeth found her throat and she did not last long. Afterward, he slumped in a sort of daze, kneeling. Her blood was on his hands, on his shirt, on his lips. Kemorabi let the body of the assassin roll out of his arms, leaving it splayed on the floor. He looked at his hands. The brilliant cerulean exploded across his retinas, and once it was color it was scent and touch and sound. Absently, Kemorabi wiped his hands off on his pants, wincing at the sharp sound the texture made. He wiped his mouth and spat out something that was not his flesh.
The people who had seen were uneasy. They mumbled amongst themselves, such a dull grey thing, an irritating sandpaper. Kemorabi wished they would stop. He growled, low but loud, so that the redness was a counterpoint to the grey murmurs. The scent of fear washed over him, clear and loud, and he grinned.
Kyachril came to stand in front of him, unmindful of the body. Are you injured? she asked. Her voice was good, like tart apples. Kemorabi answered no, though he did not know if he had spoken it. He shook his head. That azure shade still sung to him, filled his mind. Tentatively, the Catalyst offered him a hand up. He looked at it in confusion.
She loosened his hands from where, forgotten, they clenched on his thighs. Kyachril's skin had its own taste, and that more than anything made his fingers relax. She guided him to a standing position, where he swayed. Step by agonizing, blinding step, the Catalyst guided him to a more empty spot, and set him in a chair.
There was no room for thought in Kemorabi's mind. Everything whirled around, confused, and mingled with everything else. It hurt, it hurt more than anything had hurt in his life. Every nerve in his body felt raw, bruised, flayed; every signal they sent jumped into that awful pit and came out dripping in colors and resounding with noise and stinking with scent. He instinctively did not move, not even a twitch. Eventually though, after someone had dealt with the body, Kyachril led him to the ship that would take them home.
The trip was short, but it seemed to take forever. After the constant hubbub of the function, it was too quiet in the cruiser. Even the mainship, with the omni-present hum of engines, was too little. Kemorabi found himself staring at his hands again. No one had cleaned them, but the blood was beginning to dry. He wiped some of it off his face, the sticky flakes falling to the floor. Kyachril stared at him in concern.
He found himself washing in his own bathroom. It must have been his, there was his toothbrush. Without thought, he looked at his reflection. A startling amount of blueish blood encrusted his face, bright against the gray of his skin, high against low. How long had it been there? It fell off with the barest touch, leaving tiny blue specks speckling his sink. Hours, then, and his senses were still confused? Kemorabi panicked. It never lasted this long, never. Quickly he finished scrubbing his hands and face, the cold water stinging both his skin and his tastebuds. He used his toothbrush vigorously, more than once, until every last vestige of blood was gone. He found a mostly clean pair of pants and shirt, cleaner than the current pair at any rate.
Kemorabi stumbled out of his bathroom, his balance a little off in the absence of any pressing emotional goals. He was incredibly surprised to see Kyachril sitting rather awkwardly on his couch. She turned to look at him, and relaxed when he looked relatively normal. Are you... ok? She asked. A yes formed at his lips, but the whirling morass of his mind thought better of it and instead enunciated a no. No? Her eyebrows came together.
It's... he began. Everything.... he continued. I don't know how to explain it, he finished. Nothing is right. Everything is blending together. He could not help but sway just a little. He walked unsteadily to his couch, collapsing onto it. he held his head in his hands.
Do you need anything? Do you have medicine? Water? She began to get up, but Kemorabi made an inarticulate noise and caught her arm before she was all the way up. Please, he said. Don't leave, please, you are helping. She cautiously sat back down. Kemorabi revelled in the way her scent, the pure and simple smell of her, helped calm the raging tempest of his mind. Perhaps if he was closer... He scooted in towards her, entwining a hand with hers and resting his head on her shoulder. Ra, how did that one scent fix everything that was wrong? He wanted even closer, but Kyachril had tensed up with the first movement.
I'm... I'm sorry, it's just that you help and... you smell good. He finished simply, unable to think of what he was going to say. She relaxed a little bit, allowing more of that delectable smell to come out. That wall slowly reasserted itself. Kemorabi found himself dozing off, especially after Kyachril adjusted herself to make both of them more comfortable.
At around midnight, he awoke to find the Catalyst sound asleep in his embrace. He found no trace of crossed wires in his head. He disentangled himself. After a moment of thought, Kemorabi gathered Kyachril in his arms as gently as he was able and deposited her in his bed. He climbed in right beside her, making sure she was as comfortable as possible before allowing himself to fall asleep for the night.
That incident changed things between them. Kemorabi figured they were moirails, and Kyachril was indifferent to the whole edifice of quadrants, so it worked out well. Quietly, he began to see more of her, and even began to spar with her as he once had wanted. Soon enough, Kemorabi had earned a pretigious place in the hierarchy, that of Second-in-command, or just Second.
Oh Ra, no one would ever trudge through that entire thing. He had a feeling it was incredibly awful. Still, it was nice to have his own life story laid out in front of him, easy to read through. He saved the document and sent it off, before turning down the light and preparing for bed.