Don't Panic (Ulric)

[Naama]

His words stung. They tug at her broken soul, tearing apart the blockades of festering memories, and for a moment, her hands clenched into fists against his chest. She wanted to scream her anger, to deny that fact that it was her fault, to cry and cry until the rivers became seas themselves, but she knew she could do none of those things, because what he'd said was true. Her life had been taken, and there was nothing she could do now that could restore it to what it was. So she looked down, her hands tracing along the pink ridges of scars, the old friend that was anger rearing its ugly head. "Shut up," She growled, "You won't go fighting gods-forsaken petching armies, Ulric. If an army is marching our way we run our asses the other way. It's just that simple. There is no need to go dying for my sake, northerner, plenty have already beat you to it." Tawny arms wrapped around his neck, and her harsh tone diminished to a softer, sincere quality, "No one else is going to die. Not for me, not for you, no one. We'll save my sister, we'll kill your mother, than maybe I'll take you to Taloba, and hope they won't find you a delicious appetizer." She smiled, "But I want to know more, Ulric. Of the north, of your people. I've never been to Ravok, but I've heard the stories, both romantic and otherwise. It'd be nice to hear someone else's tale this time."

[Ulric]

“Ravok,” he spoke in a whisper, raising his gaze to the sky. They were before him again, the untidy jumble of canals, motley docks, the jut of elegant, decaying balusters, and the gargoyles splayed on the crests of tiled roofs, slender craft plying the inky waters below. They’d brought him up, given him a place. Though he’d fled in fear, caught up by icy fingers of grief, he loved his city. “There’s much to say,” he began. “There’s her, and the deceit, but you’ve already read of that. The life I knew, maybe that was the truer one. I wake up, and I’m not sure. It’s nearly a dream.” Vaguely, he felt the sucking of sand around his splaying toes, his body growing warmer, ever so light in the comforting clutch of the waves. He was like a strand of kelp, just drifting calmly in the current.

“Naama, you’ve never heard me speak of my father. Not of the man. There’s a reason for that. Though he wasn’t always fair, nor kind, he was a proud man, the sort that always ensured that we’d be fed, even if he’d come sore, hunched over, wracked by coughing fits and bloody shyke. There wasn’t ever time for me. That’s why I’d hang out by the gutters. There were a bunch of us, dirty rats who’d only endured a handful of years, and we dredged through the greasy, reeking debris to earn a few coppers, pinched what we could. That’s where I began to fight, too. There’d be other children, larger than us, and we’d have to defend our turf. The thing you’d do was find a rusty bit of iron, a shard of broken glass, maybe even chunk of rock, and squash them to a bloody pulp.” Ulric gave a frown. He’d always been like that, taking squabbles to an extreme, doing anything it required to get his way. He was like her in that.

“That’s when they came for us, to flay my father to a japery of bare, shrieking bone, hanging fibers of viscera, while they forced open my eyes, made me hear the screams. There’s a grotesque art in flaying. The defter you are, the longer it takes, for you just don’t drain out. That’s how it went.”

Ulric held her close, tasting the salty tang on his lips, feeling as though they were a raft crudely lashed together, just riding out the night. “Kelhus came for me, then. He was a tough warrior, probably the finest I’ve ever seen, and he’s the only reason I’ve made it this far. He kept me safe from her, even if he’d break my ribs, my nose, just to prove that he could. There he was, defying a god for my sake, and I never even understood what it cost.” He chewed at his lip, trying to remember that craggy face, the coarse, wiry whiskers. “That’s what brought me here, just trying to be like he was, to face the entirety of my existence as a man, answering only to myself. That’s why I began to deal with rogues, to trudge through sticky mud, dense trees and high, stony ridges, facing so many cruel dangers for a meager purse of coins. That’s when I began to truly kill. They were so many, I’ve lost count. Hardened men, confused men, desperate men, it wasn’t anything to me then, just like cutting timber for the fire. The world just made less sense, though. That’s why I went among the frigid peaks, to find the bones of a long dead, nearly forgotten sorcerer. There were fourteen of us when we set off, but I was the only one that came out of there.” Ulric stared off through the breakers, the coals of his eyes vaguely glassy, barely seeing the ruddy glow of dawn. “That’s when I thought, why not end this, just pick up my father’s nets? Those were good years. They were tough, but they were happy. That’s when I found a woman, and though I wanted her so badly, she didn’t want me. The night I found her petching another man, I was consumed by an infernal rapture, a lunacy that forced me to slaughter both of them, and dismembered their corpses as if they were animals for the butchery. That’s when I fled through the jaws of the rough country, sickened by the monster I’d become and fearing what I’d do next, only to find a priest, and a purpose.”

“Sylir’s son, that’s who I kept from harm, but I couldn’t rescue my other comrades. You see, just after we’d begun our voyage, I was found by Desank, and through Tanroa’s influence, dredged back through the years to convene with Xhyvas, who spoke of a strange power. There wasn’t enough time, though. Vayt came for us, then, and also Krysus. Those dark whispers are yet in my head, urging me to serve her, to destroy every person on that ship. That wasn’t something I could do, for I’d sworn to keep them safe. I fought her as hard as I could, for as long as I could, until she broke something inside of me, and I suddenly remembered what’d been inflicted on my father. I came for her, made her fear, and made her petching run.”

Ulric ran splayed fingers through his soaked, spiky hair, his tone softening. “Problem was, she’d awoken him, the child who’d been in that cellar, watching his father flayed to pieces. That’s when I began to lose myself. The fiery peaks were a cage, and he slowly, insidiously, began to take over everything that was mine. He was hurting, scared, confused, but though he only wanted to save the things that were as badly broken as himself, he was consumed by cruelty. He usurped my body, and then departed, leaving only carnage in his wake. That’s when I fought him, not just with my strength, but with love. I held him, and forgave him, and he just crumbled away.” He sucked in a deep, shaky breath, staring at Naama. “And now, here I am.”

[Naama]

For once, Naama was at a loss for words. His story panned out in dark, muddy images in her mind, devoid of any lasting tranquility. There was blood in his words, blood and pain, something she knew that everyone in their life would experience at some point in time, but to the extent that Ulric suffered seemed to dwarf her own miseries. She pulled away from him, creating a gap between them where the waves lapped at her exposed skin, as if a gentle hand meant to soothe. But the doubts seemed to fill her heart as it did her mind. What is he, to have brought the wrath of gods? The look in her eyes as she met Ulric's gaze was one of uncertainty. "Are you truly the blood of a god, Ulric?" She whispered those words, sharing in the skepticism that laced them. She hadn't given the idea much thought since they'd met; since his confession of divinity. She believed him to be a normal man touched by the mark of a god, as she, herself, was. But is he something more? "I cannot hope to pit myself in a war between the Pantheon. You have something they want, is this true? Will the gods go so far as to chase you to the end of the world? I can't survive this. I would crumple as easily as a crushed ant underfoot. But you have gone through so much, so much, and you still stand here, pledging your heart to me, someone who could be washed away by the tide any time, any where--eventually. How can you do this to yourself?"

[Ulric]

Ulric’s jaw clenched, and he looked uncertainly over the tidal flow. “Does it really matter?” That came out as a croak, for he was enveloped by the grotesquery of the creaky, stinking plague ship, and its crowded cargo. There was a crushing of empty years, the depths of his plunge manifesting, marble veined by onyx silky and cold against the ridge of his cheek. The grinding of coals to ash. “Maybe, maybe not,” he scowled bleakly. “There’s nothing I can do, anyway. There’s power, and then there’s power. That’s a rush in my veins, surely, but it may only expand beyond my grasp, harshly defying the vagary of my control. But even then, for the span of a buoyant instant, I knew what it was to possess that power. I understood where to lash off the rudder, to furl the sails to capture the wind. I’d the power to make the world better.”

Bitterly, he turned away. The boiling, aching pangs of that loss were always with him. They rose thick as bile, nearly choking him. But he defied it, for the power wasn’t his. Xhyvas hadn’t shown him to heft a shield, beat his body until banded with harsh, unyielding metal. Ulric had done it, with Kelhus intractably by his side, being for him what the dead god wasn’t. “Naama, you’ll only wither before my eyes,” he finally grunted. “That’s if they don’t take us. There are parts of me that don’t belong to me. That’s how it’s been my entire life. Those that are, well, they only clamor for you. The only wish I’ve ever had is to be my father. The ways of fishermen elude me, though. There’s only a conceit, the devils playing with my strings, jerking me to awful fate, ceaselessly in their caprice. That day is over.”

Ulric reached for her. “You ask why, and you’ll have your answer.” Inexorably, he stared into her eyes, trying to find a gleam of conception in their purest jet. “I do this because it is just. I believe that everybody deserves a choice. I can’t run away, I can’t not be like this.”

“The gods won’t leave us be, they won’t let us decide our own destiny. They play their games, but we’re the ones that suffer. That can’t stand. They desire our prayers, but what do we get? The dreams of power, crudely bartered for. There’s many types of power, but if not bequeathed, what do we truly have?” He slowly traced his fingers down her arm, the curve of her side. “You can swing a sword, haul a net, bring forth another soul, and decide. They can dry up the seas, engulf us in agony, make the highest peaks tumble, but they can’t make us love.”

And that, of anything, is why they fear.

They don’t have that power.

Ulric’s grip tensed, his eyes blazing. “I won’t cease, I won’t lay down for them. I’m weak, and I fear every day, but I defy them because somebody must. The gods aren’t all powerful. They can die, can’t they?” He gazed at her expectantly.

[Naama]

"I will never understand it, this power," She smirked, disregarding his fingers and his feverish gaze. She might have held him in contempt for something she didn't understand. And it was because of this lack of comprehension that she grew frustrated and tense, her flesh stiff where his fingers touched. "As long as this power keeps you alive, then it's fine with me. Do what you must, Ulric. Fight the gods, claim your stakes, make your point that they are not infinite entities... But don't lose yourself to this cause." Her brows furrowed in a desperate plea, a tawny hand snaking to grasp at his own, she clutched him tightly. "I care about you too much--No, I love you, Ulric. It's why I'm in so much pain, from hurting you like this, from this betrayal, from learning about this life that was never a choice. I want you to be happy. I want you to live the life you have always wanted. And gods, it only feels as if I should just remove the one obstacle standing in the way of it all." She offered him a sad, crooked smile. "Luckily, I'm a selfish bitch." She crushed her lips to his, passionate and raw. Long fingers traced his cheekbone, but the kiss soon ended. After a pause, the myrian gazed at him with a melancholy only matched by her next words, "But perhaps defecting is the right course of action. I've failed the unborn, and I've failed you. It's like a festering plague."

[Ulric]

Ulric yielded to her desperate lips, the solidity of her flesh against him igniting a similar tenseness. He’d longed to hear those words, spoken by her lips, by the lips of many others, but could he believe her? There were doubts, lingering like horrid slugs in the fetid confines of his mind. There was her infidelity, the knowledge that another man’s seed had spurted between her thighs that night, but in a way, that was how he knew her. The tawny savage before him lived freely of him, didn’t need him rescue her from every danger, didn’t need him to save her from herself. There was plainly vulnerability in her, a profound hurt surging in a heart chafed hard by fear.

“Naama,” he began. “That doesn’t matter. There isn’t very much meaning in this world of ours, but there’s one that can either chain us, or set us free.” His fingers worked at the soaking knots of her hair, tenderly easing from behind her tawny, moonlit shoulders. “The gods make us love, that’s why they’ve so much power. They’re our masters only because we desire it. There’s nothing wrong with it, not even vaguely, if they leave us to our own concerns, but these greedy machinations of their have made my heart colder than stone.”

“Until you came along.” Ulric forced himself to stare into those jet eyes, to lay bare his soul for her yet again. The effort made him shaky, the rasp in his words fading so he spoke with his own voice, not through a gag of doubt and cynicism. “They can’t tear our love asunder, any more than a shade from your past can, and that’s that only truth that matters. To love is to rise above our paltry selves. To love is to transcend the yokes of barren existence. To love is to make the gods tremble, for we venture beyond their control. . There is only us for the span of this instant. There is only you, and the sea crashing around my chest. The coals fade to cold, dead ashes, but I don’t care.”

Ulric held her close, placing his forehead against hers. “Your love has made me strong.”

[Naama]

"Then marry me," Naama said abruptly, "Or whatever it is your people do. Pledge yourself to me, and I will to you." She traced a finger along his jaw, the back of his neck, her words escaping with a tinge of yearning, fearful that by some sick twist of fate Ulric would cast her aside, suddenly finding her more of a liability than an asset. "Be my mate, my partner. So that even the gods know that we are as one, and not they, nor the scoundrels of the world will ever tear that union apart." Nor will my own stupidity. She smiled grimly to herself, knowing he had no true reason to trust her. He could easily cling to a thread of hope that her tendencies wouldn't resurface, that she wouldn't fall into the arms of another man. The myrian didn't blame him; she hardly trusted herself. But even she needed faith in something, and that something was him, baring himself to her even after she'd betrayed him. Yet, that woman he loved, she'd also betrayed him. The sickening guilt returned, stealing her voice, so all that remained was her fingers at the base of his neck, awaiting judgement.

[Ulric]

Ulric had but recently, veiled by the conceit of his dire augury, thought of himself as an adjudicator. He’d always stared through jaded eyes, judging eyes, and dispensed with whatever conduct that’d suited his own ends. He was prejudiced, selfish, and bitter, but slowly it was sloughing away. Because of her. He wasn’t adrift any longer, capsized on an ocean of worry.

Naama, you hurled me a rope.

“You are my life, my blood,” he grunted, clutching her roughly to his chest. “Your worries are mine, as are any perils you may face. You are mine, and I am yours. Yours is the heart beating in my chest, as it has been from the day you were nearly taken from me. That day, I knew that I’d sacrifice everything for your love. The gods bear my rage, but they are nothing to me when you’re by my side. They’re but a delusion. This rage of mine, the desire for vengeance, does it even matter? There is more to me. There is but a decision.”

Ulric gazed in her eyes, tracing his fingers over the nape of her neck, through heavy, wet strands of hair. They were no longer empty. Those eyes, the pools of infinite jet that’d always mystified him, they beckoned to him. The dark swirls of who she was, what she might become.

Finally, he saw her.

Heavy, blunt fingers wound tenderly around her neck, thumb ringing the back of her ear, palm cupping her cheek. He brushed back a loop of hair, while his other arm clung around the base of her spine. “Naama, I choose you,” he whispered, and crushed her to his chest, kissing her with hungry lips.

There was no denying his heart.

[Naama]

His words ignited in her such a profound relief that she realized how tense her body had become. She kissed him. Again and again, on lips and jaw and cheek, so that he would know her joy. There was a tingle beneath her ear, a sensation she disregarded for the touch of his hands. "Never again will I hurt you. I won't make the same mistake, I'll be yours until I die," Her voice choked, as if somehow she sensed it, beyond the horizon. But don't let me be the one that holds you back.. Naama embraced him, as the waves came crashing around them, the spray drenching her damp hair, washing away the tears that finally fell. She took his hand, leading him towards the tranquil shore while the soft sand shifted underfoot. The myrian sat where the water lapped at her thighs, watching him, aching for him, but she knew the pain would still be fresh in the northerner, so instead, she offered him a weary smile, "Have you decided what you would do... after all this was over?"

[Ulric]

Ulric felt his heart shudder in the cage of his ribs, and then he was consumed by the hunger of her lips, her tongue, swept away by a cyclone of ardor. The waves crashed against his shoulders, but he didn’t care. There was only her, the pulsing of her fiery chest against him, as if they could defy the inky, frigid waters. His fingers traced over the curve of her spine, down the contours of her hips as he roughly jerked her, with a feral grunt, against his body. He desired for her to become part of him with the frantic jealousy of a lover, clinging to her as a drifting sailor would a spar of driftwood, just another piece of jetsam. The more he drifted, the more he comprehended how deeply he felt for her. There couldn’t be any others. The stars were aligned differently when she was around, seeming hardly so distant when he stared up at their pricks of light through the dusky ceiling. The sky was slowly yielding, vaguely pocked by bands of pink, sprawling an incoherent, ruddy hue of crimson where it projected over the jaws of the horizon. Though they were tinier than ants against the roiling swell of its vagary, he didn’t care. There was sea, and salt, and her. The instant was fading surely as her slackening clasp over his shoulders, making the betrayal of his regret surge up, but he pushed it away.

Nothing lasted forever.

But maybe, just maybe, she would.

Though his legs were leaden, a vast torpor descending over his aching head, he didn’t want to leave just yet. They emerged from the surf, battered by more than just waves, and she drew him reluctantly down. There was only the low, sucking rush of waves reduced to a scant wash of spume, her jet eyes, the nearness of her body and the agony of her betrayal sloughing away. There was a vessel at sea, smeared with tar, with sticky, fetid pitch, the clots of unfurled lateen sails rising like ghouls from the waning night, and he wondered at its purport. “Not really,” he grunted. “There’s only the days, and the nights rising before me. The joy of you. The thought that so long as I fight with thoughts of you in my head, there’s not a man that can defeat me, no god that can shackle me to a cruel yoke of bondage.”

Abruptly, he frowned. His hand jerked out, thumb slanting the slope of her jaw so he could trace the mark inscribed so delicately there, like a fragment of warm metal coiled over her tawny skin. “That’s…” He flung his hand back, stroked the pattern on his own neck, the coals of his eyes flaring up. The glimmer of a grin came over his face. “That’s unusual.”