Artemis

Zero:

To describe her would be to tell an incomplete tale; an introduction, a prologue. Who and what she is can not be explained, but must be shown. She was and is forever Artemis; the name she was known by, the name she was feared by, the name she used when she killed and when she drank the blood of her enemies. This was the name that carried the legend; the inhuman name that was more myth than story, more tale than history. But it is only one of her names, and only half of who and what she is. Artemis was much more than the unfeeling cold blooded killer, whose stories are told to children to keep them in bed at night. She was, at one point or another, human. That, is where we shall begin. This is her story.

When viewed from a distance, the green of the forest canopy was a very kind color; soft, unbroken, and in the morning especially, when the dew that stuck to the leaves reflected the mellow light of the sun. The calmness of the forest, the stillness, the silence, the now hushed breeze, all alluded to the activity of its unnatural and self proclaimed protectors. Color was abundant here, and the shades changed softly with the almost insignificant swaying of the leaves sifting light in through the canopy in a soft rhythm. What clashed with the rhythm was the rough swing of a branch high up, rustling in the leaves out of synch with nature’s tune, the silence of the birds’ song as they fluttered away. These things were all allusions to the protectors’ activity. And even he; a lowly traveler, a speck on a dirt path that was no more than a wrinkle on the forest’s green floor, knew that something was amiss. He couldn’t hear their breathing; no, they were too high up in the trees. And though he seemed to preoccupy himself with his walk, his steady gait, the soft steps of his black worn boots against the fine, well traveled dirt, he was listening for them. There weren’t too many of them, perhaps five, not too close together but not spread out either. They had been tracking him for some time, but so far had left him alone. He dared not look up in to the trees for them, to find them or see them. . . no, they’d come down here and fight, or fire arrows if they knew that he knew. . . . he had heard stories, but he had not believed them, or if he had believed them, he did not believe he would fall victim, the same way countless others had in those exaggerated tales told by travelers passing through the pubs and taverns. The stories became repeated, more extravagant each time; who was to say that a single bit of it was true? Of course he was not a complete disbeliever. He had lived through his own stories. . . . however, he was not a man who feared his own death.

It is important to know of this man’s origin; that he is no man. He was Aishi’ja; the blue eyed race whose numbers now dwindled, feared and detested by all humans for their power and their late princess, she who would have inherited the world. He was one of them, and he possessed their power: heightened senses, the speed and agility, the intelligence, the blood, the Fury. They were hated most for the Fury; the beautiful flash of bright cerulean that came from their eyes when they feared or panicked, the onslaught of death that followed them and did not care for friend or foe, leaving each corpse just as bloody as the last, until they passed out. . . . He was one of them, though he had never known the Fury himself. Yet it was enough that he had been born with that blood . . . . that was enough to make him hated.

He walked for a long time before he reached that fork in the road; when he did reach it he stopped, the last step of his boots coming together kicking up fine dust that settled back slowly, clinging to his black boots. Those in the trees had stopped as well. Their interest in his choice of direction seemed apparent. He stood still for a moment, and for a brief moment the birds sang again, tempted by the stillness of those in the trees, until he, then, turned his boots to the branch of tan dust that pointed north. He stopped suddenly, before one step was finished, and winced in pain; a small arrow had grazed him just across his shoulder, cut open the cloth of his light colored cloak to reveal pale skin, red and with a gash. He grabbed his right shoulder with his left palm, and said very calmly, and in a tone as one might speak to a person standing but a few feet away, a friend, “Who are you? What do you want of me?” As he said this his eyes were searching, very wet but not on the verge of tears, and very blue. Those eyes that emanated Understanding, those kind, wise, grey-blue eyes. . . . They scanned the dirt floor, looking for answers in the pattern of the dust. The dust kept its secrets; told him nothing. His light lip almost quivered, or would have quivered, had he not been who he was and seen what he had seen. The rest of his face remained hidden in the shadow of his long, oily black bangs that drooped over his face and eyes when he hung his head.

The only answer that came was another small crossbow arrow, aimed very low, at his feet. He took a very calm step backwards with one foot, dodged it easily, without cause for slight alarm; the arrow sat mocking him, a few grains of dust away from his toes. He asked the question again. Then there was a whistle, the very same as a common bird that called this forest home, though all the birds had long since fled. There was again the sound of leaves rustling, then quickly, and very loudly, a thump behind him, and a good sized cloud of dust rose up above the ankles. He did not flinch, or turn around to see who it was, but said very calmly again, still with those eyes searching the ground, “What do you want of me?”

“Aishija,” she spoke the word with a tone of considerable suppression, considerable hate, considerable desire. The voice was clearly feminine, raspy, not old but completely without the playfulness of youth; to him it also revealed that she was about his height, tall for a human, but average for an Aishija. “You have trespassed here. You are a fool to have left the solace of those soft hearted Elves. For that you must be tried.”

He was still silent, stood still for a moment, his eyes resting and his head lifting until his chin was almost level with the ground; “Tried?” again he spoke very soft, very kind. He took his hand from his shoulder, where blood stained his hand and his cloak and shirt, but the skin beneath was clean and blemishless. “What is my crime?”

“Your crime?!” the question angered her, almost as much as his calmness, his kind tone. She wanted him to be running, to be angry, to be afraid. This man seemed completely unchanged in mood; carefree, almost drugged. She remained still however, her crossbow pointed towards the back of his throat, trigger finger unquivering, but anxious. “You’ve been heading north. You, an Aishija, heading towards human cities, that’s more than enough reason not to let you pass!”

At this point he turned around. It wasn’t a very hasty motion, but it did come as a surprise to the human woman; who held her weapon pointed still at him; and when she saw him, his face; it was not the face of a beast, or the face of a frightened animal, or one of a brave fool. His was drenched in sadness, but smiling, almost happily, so empty. He did not slouch entirely, or stand up straight to his full height, but leaned his head and pointed his kind eyes at her. She detested that; the way he looked at her, as if she were his friend. All the others had ran, or fought, or burst into the Fury, resisted or attempted to flee . . . . . he did nothing. He did not even acknowledge she was his enemy. This she translated as arrogance; how dare he? Fortunately for her, she was not an inexperienced fool, who would lose her control due to her temper.

She was glaring at him with her eyes, honey colored, not common nor exceptionally rare for a human; the uniqueness of it, that marked her being more than ordinary, was the thick, bright blue glowing line that separated the sweet honey iris from the white of her eyes. Her blond hair was drawn back, pulled into a low pony tail behind her head, giving her a clean view of her target, or the other end of the crossbow she held, completely steady. “Lucky for you,” she said, “By law I can’t kill you. It would’ve been more interesting if you’d fought back.” With that she gave him a cruel smirk, shifted her aim slightly to her right and fired in the same motion.

The initial shock of being shot pushed him to take a step back with his left foot, grabbing his shoulder with his right hand, fingering the slender wooden stem of the arrow that pierced his flesh, a deep wound. He was turned away from her, focused on the wound, panting, but he didn’t know why. The pain was immense at first; he had never been shot before. Despite this, he did not scream, but turned back suddenly to face the woman, who had already loaded another arrow into her crossbow. “I thought you said you weren’t going to kill me?!” he snapped, more sad than angry. This disappointed her. There were almost tears in his eyes. . . . . was this fool going to beg for his life? What kind of pitiful creature was he? Why didn’t he fight back? She waited; he didn’t beg. She had expected him to, but he had said no more after that one question. He had only looked at hr for an answer.

“No,” she said simply, watching him blink a few times, and sway his head. She didn’t say anything else; just stood their waiting. He would have wondered for what, but had lost too much control of his mind already. He collapsed to the forest floor with a loud thump.

While he was unconscious, more of them had descended from the trees, and they had dragged him across the forest floor, taken him to the place that none of them called home, but where all of ci Ze’ut dwelled. It’s location was a secret; in all their years of practice not once had they been attacked or surprised. They did not take in to consideration that their presence here in the forest was almost modern myth; they were real enough to themselves. That, and another fact remained: only ci Ze’ut had ever been in their fortress, and lived to return to the forest floor, to return to the cities of either humans in the north or elves in the south, the deeper forest.

When he awoke, everything around him was a hazy green. After his vision cleared, the green remained as a source of light from above him, an Elven lantern with green panes, the frame cast in black, twisting iron, hanging by a black iron chain from the domed wooden ceiling. The floor was wooden as well, as the walls, and the room was bare and devoid of furniture or windows. There was only the mighty throne, and the woman who sat there. The throne itself did not appear to belong here, it appeared built for a grander décor. The wood was heavy and dark, similar to mahogany, and carvings ran up and down the arms of the chair, and the edge of the back. There was no cushion or padding on this throne, it was all hard wood. In the green light the wood appeared to be alive, the chair a living tribute from the forest to its master and protector.

There was a woman seated there, almost perfectly still, statuesque; cold and empty just like a statue, but with features of equal beauty, carved with a precise, careful hand; but without love. . . . . Her dark brown hair rested on her right shoulder, falling from a high ponytail. One hand was laid on the end of each armrest; her legs were crossed. She wore a light, silver scaled shirt that tied behind her neck, and a skirt of the same material, with a thick, heavy black belt around her waist that appeared to serve no purpose. Her boots were black, thick, and rose up to her knees. She also wore open a black cloak, held together by a silver crescent moon clasp on her left shoulder, draped behind her, on the throne. Then there were her eyes; by far her most astonishing feature. A dark, deep brown, but like the crossbow-woman’s, rimmed in bright, beautiful blue around the iris. Unlike the crossbow-woman’s, her eyes gave many looks in a brief glance; a look of power, of pride; of solemn-ness, of duty; of hate and of desire; and detectable only to the Aishija, a look hidden by all the others, requiring the others to stay hidden, bringing forth and masked by the hate and consoled by the solemn, was a look of immense sorrow, that swallowed up and called all the others lies. But he said nor did nothing to allude to what he saw; this was his gift of understanding. “Aishija,” only her lips moved. Her tone was almost an exact duplicate of the crossbow-woman’s, only spoken in a smooth voice.

“My name is Lenji,” he stated, moving from all fours to sit on his knees before her. He gazed up at her with his kind, grey blue eyes, from beneath those oily black bangs. He did not want to be addressed by his race, by his species, like some animal. Even dogs were called by their names.

“Do you know your crime?” her words were sharp, she seemed to relish in each tone of her voice, savoring the depressed emotion of loss that she expected from him, that he seemed to almost emanate, though for reasons other than the one at hand. This however did not strike her at first; unlike the other she could sense his sorrow. Just not where it came from, and she had to assume his immanent death was the cause. She’d seen it so very many times before, relished it like this so very many times before. . . .

“My. . .crime?” he garbled the words as softly as her words were sharp.

“You were heading north, passing towards human villages and towns, we simply can not let you put all those human lives in danger,” as she spoke his eyes fell to the light wooden boards that made up the floor, tracing the grain across to the wall and up to the domed ceiling; he stared, he could swear the lantern was rocking . . . . . but it was still. His eyes fell back to the floor. “Your kind simply can not be put near any of us people; you’ll kill, the Fury is something inevitable, that you can not control. . . . . “

“But I’m not going to kill them! I’m just passing through, I just have to go retrieve something. . . from an old friend.”

“And why should I believe you?” there was a pause at this point. He hated it when no one listened to him. “Your sentence is death.”

“So that’s it? That’s your justification for killing me?!” he barked it, glancing up at her suddenly, the first words in anger he had shouted at one of ci Ze’ut. Something wicked curled her lips up one cheek. But it was not a pleased curl, thinking of his demise . . . . . he annoyed her. “You’re not killing me to save them, you’re killing me because you hate what I am!”

“Quiet!” She barked it, leaning forward suddenly in her throne, gripping the end of the arm rests tightly; the first movements since her lips. She sat back, turning her head slightly and glaring at him. She did not speak, and neither did he. He returned to examining the grain of the wood, his eyes wandering as they always did, keeping him occupied. How does he know? Her gaze quivered, unsteadied; her breathing alluded to a nervousness. What does he know?

The silence loomed over him, itched him right at the back of his head where he couldn’t scratch, especially with his hands tied like this, behind his back. If he tried he could break the tight ropes that were used, that would be something rather simple for an Aishija. . . . he finally looked up towards her, addressed her, and said completely simply, with out sign of sorrow or pleading, as if asking a neighbor for what cake he planned to use the borrowed sugar for, “Why?”