Ambiguous

by Thalia

It was all he could do sometimes to cling to the knowledge that it could be worse. This was by no means a happy thought, but one needed something to remember in these times.

Nolen's otherwise youthful face was marred by too-old eyes, those of a man who had lived and fought fifty winters rather than twenty-four, and there was no warmth or happiness in his expression. He was alive, and he was suffered to keep his own mind and thoughts, which was more than could be said for many others. Mage lords of more powerful clans had fallen to the will of the dark realms, Afrim among them, almost invariably to their own ruin. The young sky mage's lips creased into a bitter smile. Once upon a time, Lord Kendrick of Afrim was an honourable mage.

Once upon a time. Three winters ago. Back when Afrim had not fallen to the dark side and Kendrick was still alive. Back before he'd destroyed all he held dear and died for a twisted cause.

Nolen sighed. There wasn't too much point in dwelling upon the past, really. It was because of the clairvoyance that came with his birthright that he was not placed under the spells to erase memories and free will. The high empress in command of the dark realms even deigned to give him a post.

The young man laughed aloud, the sound cold and harsh as the high winds. A deputy, to enforce order and security! Oh, if only the Astoran mages of old could see their heir now! His clan was neither large nor particularly renowned, but never before had a clan lord of Astora been subjugated by a dark power.

A jangling sense of unease cut through his gloomy thoughts: an instinct that he'd learnt since childhood not to ignore. Unsheathing his machete, he peered into the dark, dense line of trees that lay at the outskirts of the small town. Quietly uttering a spell of stealth to mask the sound of his footsteps, he made his cautious way into the woods.

Using his intuition rather than his senses, which were never as strong here as under open skies, he swiveled out of the way just in time a whip-chain uncoiled from the branches of a tree overhead like a striking snake, bare inches from wrapping around his blade. But even this was not enough to stop the progress of a blow gun's dart from hitting him on one leg, freezing him temporarily in place.

A moment later, a tall, lithe figure in shadowy dark green leapt down in front of him with the silent grace of a panther and he found himself staring into narrowed green eyes behind a half-mask.

Relaxing his mind and calling upon his magic to free him from the paralysis, he barely managed to duck out of the way of the green-clad figure's whip-chain before it wrapped around his neck. "Who are you?" he asked, quickly stepping back and raising his blade.

"Your enemy, and let's leave it at that," the voice that snapped the response was feminine, though crisp and curt. "Hand over your coins, and maybe I'll let you live."

"You shall not gain wealth from me, Lady Bandit," he replied, and it was an honest answer. His machete-- standard issue and unadorned-- was probably the item of greatest value in his possession, and even that didn't truly belong to him. More out of necessity than out of inclination, he fought against the young woman, whose haughtily raised chin and elegant posture suggested a past far more refined than her present condition, and he feinted to the left, raising one hand to cast a spell.

A blast of leaves spiralled from her own free hand in a cone of green towards his face, and his eyes widened even as he vaulted out of the way. "You're a wood mage," he panted, dropping his stance to a crouch as the whip-chain unfurled like a vine and snapped towards him again.

For a moment, something flickered in her eyes, before they once again narrowed into jaded slits of malevolent hate. "And you're one of THEM." She spat the last word out like poison, and he almost flinched at the reminder.

"Were it not so, Lady," he sighed, and for a moment, she paused, her stance still cautious, whip-chain gripped tightly in one hand. Slowly, he lowered his blade from a striking position. "I am not a general of their armies," Nolen told her softly. "My clan does not have so much power or fame as some."

"But you still work for them, apparently of your own free will," the young woman accused, advancing on him. "You don't resist."

"I only have my own mind because they cannot bewitch me like they do with the others," he said simply. "Astora draws on an elusive, faraway power, but its strength is in the mind."

"A sky mage, then," her voice softened, and for a brief moment, those bright green eyes looked almost pained. "I was friends with a sky mage once. Helia of Umbrielus."

Nolen knew of the other sky mage, from a greater clan than his own. "She and her second, Meriel of Thalass, perished together in battle against the dark realms." With this bit of information, the female bandit hung her head, her fingers tightening around her weapon in anguished anger.

"Why do you work for them?" she finally asked, her voice dwindled to a whisper. "Why do you go against the memory of your kindred?" Listless fingers lifted to her hair and undid the ties that held her mask in place, and Nolen watched as a face of heartbreaking beauty was revealed. The lady, uncovered, was not a cold, ruthless brigand, but a young woman with a burdened heart and eyes brimming with tears. "Another wood mage from a different clan was turned to their side, and his life was ended years ago. It is a painful loss for me, though he is not my kin."

Nolen smiled sadly, and bent his head. "I stay alive however I must, because it is only the living that can change the way things are, and not the dead. Perhaps it is good that I am but a mere deputy."

"I fight," she told him, a note of hardness in her voice. "Perhaps it is a losing battle, but I want to return what I can to the rightful owners."

He nodded, and for a moment, neither of them spoke, eyes the colour of the night sky meeting eyes the colour of leaves. He felt the need to say something-- encouragement, perhaps, but nothing too unequivocal. He was an agent of the dark in name, and she was an outlaw. On opposite sides and yet not. Neither heroes, and neither villains. "I will leave you be," he finally told her, sheathing his blade.

Her eyes flashed in understanding, and a fleeting smile passed over her rose-coloured lips. "And I will let you pass," she returned, stepping forward and tucking her whip-chain into her belt.

He took the hand that she proffered, bowing over it and brushing a courtly kiss over the knuckles, as though things were like they used to be, and a hint of pink arose in her cheeks. "I wish you well, Lady," he told her quietly as he released her hand.

"Melantha." He paused as she gave her name. Another brief smile. "Melantha of Callistine."

"Nolen of Astora," he returned. "May you be blessed by the stars."