And voila! (:

NaNoWriMo '06, chapter one, well and fully edited.

Title: The Soul of Chaos

Summary: Three unlikely people; three different worlds. The Angel, the Warrior and the Prophet are thrown together on a haphazard, half baked mission to save the world as we know it. We're doomed.

Warnings: Future slash is a very distinct probability; ridiculously slashy overtones abound, in any case. Language, occasional wordiness x) and NaNoWriMo style hurried prose. I will not be over-editing this, so be warned of mediocrity.

Disclaimer: Yes, everything belongs to me. Muahaha. If you steal, I will gouge your eyes out with a plastic spork and feed them to you.

Enjoy!

Chapter One

In which the main character has a Dream.

Evenere found the dark to be comforting, often. It was muffling, quiet and comforting to his poor battered soul. He came to the high peaked towers just for that, climbed the mountainous stairs that led from the main body of the extravagant church and curled himself into the tiny corner below the bells. He could stay for an hour, if he came right as the bells rang - if he ran up the stairs while they were ringing, he could sit below them while the aftertones died away in a cacophony of echoes that bounced around the smooth walls of the belltower. He liked the sound of such chaotic noise fading into silence. It was peaceful.

Up here, he could see the ocean clearly, the whitecaps leaping and bounding forward like horses; like an old, forgotten god’s silver-maned steed, still chafing at the bit after so many years. The sea was wild, and he loved it. The faint, far off seagulls’ cry reminded him of a siren’s wail, luring her sailor to the unforgiving rocks that lurked below the surface of the water, crying out to him with an obscene wail that somehow sounded like music to the ear. Evenere closed his eyes for a moment and imagined this, imprinting the image upon his mind - of the sailor’s smile as he drowned, unknowingly giving his life that the siren may live.

Evenere had heard fairy tales, of course, but always he could imagine them more vividly than others. Always he had a clear picture in his mind of how exactly a selkie smiled as it eased a coin out of a tightly clenched purse, limbs akimbo in a sort of wild grace; or the precise color of Morrigan’s hair, just a shade darker than black so as not to be mistaken for a normal color. She was not to be mistaken for a normal woman, after all. Worse than a siren, she was. Evenere pondered upon this for a moment as he tightened his tunic collar against the chill wind that blew in from the sea; the siren, he decided, killed for the need of it. Morrigan killed for the fun of it.

He shivered, and it wasn’t just the cold. It was hard not to think of the Celts when he sat up in the tall, tall tower that overlooked their sea, their gods and goddesses, the graveyard of the giants and battleground of heroes. His kind didn’t belong to the sea; they were farmers. Generally all round peaceful folk, with no gory, glorious history and mystical culture like the Celts. We, he thought to himself, are a new species. And we will outlive them, see them die with a sort of detached interest, because we don’t understand their world, and they don’t understand ours. We are different in too many ways.

Today, as Evenere slept in his tower, he dreamed of the ocean. The seaspray tingled against his bare skin as he stood, naked, at the prow of a great ship. Wind whipped his hair around his face, back and forth as if it could not decide which way to blow, down here so close to the solid reality of wood and sail. The salty water stung as it dripped into shallow cuts on his arm, and the sight of blood made him faint. He didn’t like blood, blood sacrifice. It reminded him too much of priestly rituals, the useless mumbling of a robed man who knows that a life is lost and can do nothing, but pretends he can. Evenere despised that kind of untruthfulness.

He held his arm aloft, letting the blood mingled with ocean water drip down into the roiling seas. A drop fell, almost slowly, making a great sound as if the world had suddenly become silent just to emphasize the importance of the blood-salt-sweat drop falling, hitting the water. The silence spread, until even the flapping of the sails - a noise which Evenere hadn’t even noticed was there until it was gone - had faded into blessed silence. The echoes of the falling liquid spread across the sea, far off as he could hear, and then the sea slowly stilled and calmed until at last it lay flat, and a ripple began, originating from that single point; it spread outward in the same manner as the silence and the sound, and brought with it a red the color of Evenere’s blood.

The red began to twist and writhe, shaping itself into creatures and humanoid beings of watery blood who raised themselves slowly from their home and stepped upon the water, slowly pulling themselves up the side of the ship with clawed hands. Their eyes were golden, their skin red, and they were of so many shapes and sizes that Evenere wondered at their identical coloring before deciding that it was, indeed, a dream, and nothing was impossible.

Then he realized they were crawling along the wooden deck toward him, some smiling impossibly fanged smiles with frighteningly large teeth, others simply pulling themselves along with a neutral sort of expression; and still others found some creative manner of bringing themselves to Evenere’s feet, wherein they gathered in droves to sit upon and beside each other, clamoring for the best view of the startled young man.

He stared at them, and they stared back. One reached out a hand, a red-and-blue veined hand that seemed wrinkled and wizened in an odd contrast to the seemingly young humanoid face, and prodded Evenere’s bare leg. The pale skin whitened under the rough contact. The creatures murmured interestedly among themselves. Those few smiles turned into grins.

For a moment, Evenere was afraid that the dream creatures bare their fangs and swallow him whole -

- and then he woke up, blinking his eyes rapidly in the fading light of the evening.

The priest would be closing the old church down now, and ringing the bells again. Already the smaller set in the adjacent tower had begun to toll their melancholy tune.

Evenere yawned, his mouth stretching widely to reveal short, pointed canines, and scratched behind his ear. He stood slowly, uncurling himself from the small, cramped space where he could sit beneath the bells without fear of falling off. He was beginning to grow too big for the tiny alcove. Soon he would have to find another peaceful place; he was used to it, though. It only took a few days of searching after he was finished his chores to find one - that he had kept this one for so long was a miracle, really. He had expected to grow more in the long summer months. Father Benedir told him often that boys grew during the spring and summer, like young trees shooting up anxiously before harsh winter set in. Evenere secretly agreed. Winter was no growing season, to be sure.

He set down the stairs at a leisurely pace. The old priest who usually closed up on Se’enday was often slow about it, hobbling around from wooden bench to wooden bench, carefully picking up belongings that people had forgotten, books that he had lent out for that day’s sermon. He would complain while he was doing it, too, muttering to himself about ungrateful farmers - uneducated and unable to read, the lot of them. Enevere heard the old man as he stepped quietly out of the stairwell, not bothering to correct him; most of the village was, indeed, quite well educated for farmers. It was thanks to the abundant crop and the fertile lands that they had life so easy in Azatlan, with so much time for leisure activities. Enevere himself could read, though he couldn’t yet write. Randa, the innkeeper, had taught him to read when he was younger, and lately she’d pled off from teaching him to write.

He supposed he could teach himself, but it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun. Randa was far too easy to rile up for an innkeeper. She was lucky she had her sister Leln as a barkeep; Randa would couldn’t keep her patience to save her life. All the same, Enevere liked her. She was a good teacher, when he wasn’t distracted by trying to distract her. He’d learned more from her than from all the priests put together, save Father Benedir - but that was a different kind of learning. The life kind of learning, that you brought with you to go off adventuring, as the Father put it. Randa taught city learning.

The doors closed behind Enevere as he left, nearly catching the tail of his already ragged cloak. He could almost hear the old priest’s scowl as he swept Enevere out of the church with his broom. He didn’t approve of young men wandering around his precious church - hoodlums that they were, he didn’t trust them a whit. Enevere rolled his eyes and waved goodbye to the closed doors.

“Nice to see you, too, Father Benedir.” It was his fault for staying up on the tower so late, anyway. The Father didn’t like to ring the bells when Enevere was up there, so he’d thrown the man off schedule - and he was getting on in his years and set in his ways. But Enevere couldn’t blame him, after all, he supposed that someday he’d be like that too. And the priest did impart to him the occasional bit of useful advice, which he stored away and hoarded like a wyrm hoarded treasure, for it was treasure to him. He had a whole library in his head, he liked to tell people, and they shook their heads amusedly. Enevere never could understand what they found so funny, and one day he asked Randa about it.

“They think ye’r a bit of a simpleton.” She said plainly. He was taken aback.

“But isn’t knowledge a sign of wisdom?” Enevere wondered, and Randa snorted.

“If ye’r old, it means ye’r smart so people’d better listen to what ye say. If ye’r young, it means ye’r arrogant. But people think ye’r a simpleton ‘cause ye ain’t either old nor arrogant, and they don’t know how ta deal wit’cha.”

Everything sounded simpler in Randa’s slow, southern drawl. It was, he thought mournfully, the people who were complicated. After a time he’d given up on understanding the mechanisms of another man’s mind, for he had better things to occupy his imagination with.

Like that dream – a fantastical vision, so vivid that it seemed almost to be real. He could see in his mind’s eye the stark golden eyes and the red that seemed to meld from one creature to the next and on down the sides of the ship to the sea.

Evenere sighed and shook his head to clear it of the image. It would do no good to linger on such an unrealistic dream, pretending it might be real.

He made his way through the small copse that lay between the church and Randa’s inn, where he spent most nights. Sometimes he would sleep under the stars if the summer was warm, and the air was balmy. But not tonight; it was already dark and cool out. He pulled his cloak tighter about his slight frame to ward off the chill wind, hurrying forward toward the faint light in the distance. Randa always lit a lantern outside, and light emanated from the inn’s upstairs windows as well, giving off a warm, welcoming glow as he approached.

His shadow stretched out behind him into the gloom from whence he’d come, shrinking away from the light. Evenere stood for a moment, basking in the small bit of warmth afforded to him from the fire inside. He steeled himself to go in, knowing that somehow he’d be roped into gambling with the rest of the farmboys though they didn’t much like him – the more, the merrier, seemed to be their only creed - and things rarely ended well for him. He had no head for numbers or cards, and the scant wage that he received in return for various chores around the town was barely enough for adequate meals and lodging, never mind any such entertainment as the boys liked.

Finally, Enevere stepped forward and pushed the heavy wooden doors open. A cacophonic flood of sound overwhelmed him, mingled with the scent of ale and sweat to create a stifling atmosphere. It was worse than usual tonight.

“Evan!” A voice yelled. It was Adam, by the tone; his voice had just barely broken, and was still interspersed by higher, feminine tones every so often. It was a point of embarrassment for him, one that the others liked very much to tease him about.

Enevere reluctantly turned in Adam’s direction and smiled weakly. There were four of them huddled around a small round table, situated as close as humanely possible to the roaring fire: Adam, who was small and blond, with clever hands and a quick temper; Jom, a brunet who could easily pull a plowhorse’s load on his broad shoulders; Shane, taller than any of them, enjoyed hunting coyotes - and everything else - a little too much for Enevere’s comfort; and last but certainly not least was Kadin, whom Enevere thought was the most tolerable of them all aside from his appetite for the fairer sex, sitting with his back to the fire and a barely visible blush of heat on his dark cheeks. He was sending Ariana the waitress hungry glances, but she pretended not to notice.

“They’re farther into their cups than usual,” Ariana muttered to him as she brushed by, accidentally slopping ale onto the reed-covered floor.

“Evan, my good man, come join us for a round of Old Maid.” Jom rumbled happily, raising his mug in a salute. “First ale’s on me!”

“What?” Adam complained, his voice going up an octave as he whined, “You never bought us any drinks, you cheapskate.”

“You never lost ten rounds of dice in a row, Adam.” Shane pointed out, smirking at Enevere. The pale boy sighed and advanced toward them.

He could claim to have misheard over the din, but he knew it would be inviting trouble to turn down an invitation. People liked the farmers’ boys. They had grumbled before that he thought himself too good to associate with good, honest young men, and it had nearly lost him a month’s good pay. He could not afford that now, not with winter fast approaching. Besides, it was a small price to pay for Jom’s quiet protection from the others. He suspected that he gave the boy his entire allowance and then some at the rate he lost.

Jom clapped Enevere on the back, sending him toppling into a roughly hewn wooden chair with a small “Oomph.”

“Ariana!” Shane whistled, and she came hurrying over with an irritated look on her face.

“I’ve other customers to attend to, I don’t live to carry out the whim of four drunken boys.” She snapped. “Make it quick, and by God if you can’t pay this time, I’ll set you to work in the kitchens scrubbing pots until you’re gray.”

“An ale for our friend Enevere, if you please.” Shane drawled. “Jom here is paying.”

Ariana snorted. “Jom, you waste more money on alcohol than any farmer I know. It’s no wonder your father fears for you. And Enevere! I thought better of you than to join them in their foolish games.”

Enevere looked away shamefacedly. The pretty young waitress was renowned for her sharp tongue, but it hadn’t often been directed at him before.

“Come on, just get us a drink.” Telltale spots appeared on Shane’s cheeks, a sure sign that his temper was rising. He held a general disdain for women, and more so the ones who thought they could order him and the other boys around. He was rising to his feet when Ariana backed down, her brow still marred by a frown but not willing to lose her job over Shane. Enevere gave her an apologetic smile when she glanced his way, but she only glared.

Throughout all this, Kadin had said nothing, only watched in fascination as Ariana’s eyebrows arched indignantly and her mouth turned down in a scowl. Now Adam turned to him and snickered, prodding the immobile youth.

“Bet’cha wouldn’t mind a piece of that in the bedroom, huh?” Adam whistled softly as Ariana flounced away, and Kadin turned red again.

“Phaw.” Shane muttered, “Kadin couldn’t get her into bed if he used Spell-binding.”

Jom slammed his mug down onto the worn table surface, quickly crossing himself. “Don’t say that.” He muttered, “’S bad luck to mention Witchery in the presence of a woman.”

Adam rolled his eyes. “You’re just a superstitious nutter, Jom.” He said contemptuously. But Shane closed his mouth and surreptitiously crossed himself too.

“Come on, let’s just play a round.” Kadin finally spoke up, his lilting accent startling us. “Al’right?”

“Al’right.” Adam replied, deftly slipping the cards through his nimble fingers.

They played one round before Ariana came back with Enevere’s drink. She set it down rather roughly on the table, and said “There’s your ale, Enevere. Enjoy.” In a rather caustic tone.

“Thanks.” Enevere mumbled, sipping the cool liquid and grimacing at the unpleasant taste. He really didn’t like ale - he much preferred wine - but they didn’t serve much else besides rainwater at Randa’s inn.

“Them johns won’t come here if they think it’s too hoighty toighty.” She’d told him once, and, looking around the room, Enevere had to agree with her. The men who frequented this place were generally loud and gleefully uncultured, hardly the wine drinking type.

“Evan, here ya go.” Adam handed him a small pile of cards, and the pale boy picked them up slowly, once more trying to make sense of the game. None of the others had really told him what exactly he was supposed to do... but he’d assumed that he’d pick it up in time. It was lucky he didn’t play every night, or he wouldn’t have any coin at all.

“Where’s Fabian tonight?” Enevere inquired suddenly, noticing the absence of one of the other regulars. There were about seven boys in all who frequented the inn, and five of them were there near every night.

Adam gave him a quizzical look. “Who’s Fabian?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

Enevere blinked. What?

Shane shot him a wink, and turned his wicked smile on the small blond. “Abby, you idiot.” He said. “Abby still had work to do when we left, and I don’t envy her. Her father’s a slavedriver.”

“Why, did you miss her?” Kadin teased, grinnig lewdly at Enevere, who felt a flush rise to his cheeks.

“Don’t bother him about it.” Jom said, “You’re not much better, you and Ariana. Dancing around each other like a couple o’ hares in the moonlight, y’are.”

Shane grinned at the metaphor and clapped Jom on the back. “You got that right, Jonathan. Mad hares.” He chuckled.

“Why’d you call her Fabian?” Adam asked Enevere abruptly, his brow furrowed. Abby was as tomboyish as anyone, but no one would dare call her a boy. Her father would be upon them like the wrath of god in an instant if he heard. She herself didn’t much care, but he was to be feared and obeyed.

Enevere frowned slightly. “She told me to call her that. It’s her given name; her mother was expecting a boy.” Or hoping for. Even herb-witches had a hard time discerning the gender of an unborn child.

Now he regretted mentioning it. He didn’t realize that Fabian hadn’t told the others her name; for an instant there, it seemed like a secret. He adored secrets. But the farmboys had no concept of privacy, and he hoped they wouldn’t tell too many people. Fabian might be angry with him.

“Oh.” Adam subsided into silence, which was soon filled with noise of conversations from the other tables and inane chatter between Adam and Kadin.

-- --

/End Chapter One

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