Here is a oneshot for this new section, which desperately needs more fics! Argh! Fourth fic for the section! There are other projects I should be working on, but I decided to take a break and write about Kestrel instead.

My horrendously short fic is set during Slaves of the Mastery, when Aramanth is destroyed. It's not exactly imaginative, since I've only re-written the event from Kestrel's perspective. Oops.


SONG OF SORROW

~ kittykittyhunter ~


My heart pounded as I realised that Aramanth was ablaze. I could smell the smoke, hear the screams and see the fire that destroyed all I had ever known.

I followed my father and Bowman to the city's centre and gazed at the once proud wind singer. Flames licked at the wood, changing it from brown to black.

I cried out, unable to control my emotions. I was scared, angered and saddened within the space of a few seconds. I sought refuge within Bowman's mind, but he was too traumatised to offer me shelter.

I tried to push my fear aside, forcing myself to listen to Father's instructions instead. In that moment I admired his courage: he always managed to maintain control. I hated myself for being so selfish, only ever thinking of my own grief.

Within minutes Father had fetched a fire hose, whilst I, terrified, had only stared at the burning structure. He trained the nozzle of the hose, and Bowman and I pumped the handle at both ends.

I couldn't control my tears as I pumped, and I continued to scream, still unable to accept reality. Aramanth was burning before my eyes, because some monster… I could not conclude my accusations, nor find words to describe the responsible for the heinous crime, and I was too afraid to act in any way other than turning the handle for the hose.

Finally the flames went out. I blinked back my tears and began to swing my way up onto the wind singer. I had ignored Father's command to 'keep pumping'. The wood charred my skin, scarring it, but I ignored the pain. Father called out again, this time instructing me to be careful, but this time he was cut short as a huge flood of people rushed into the centre of Aramanth.

I remained unnoticed, my black clothing blending too well against the burnt wind singer. I watched as they chased the people of Aramanth, first on horses. Then the chasseurs were followed by footmen, who stabbed those who had lost the strength to run and had fallen to the ground. I felt a wave of anger surge through my veins, and for a moment, my heart told me to jump down to the streets and annihilate all those who had dared to invade our city. But then, my mind protested, convincing me with reason that there was no way that I'd be able to stand up to the army of destroyers, and that I was safer and somehow more useful in the wind singer.

Bowman and Father were pushed back by the invaders. Somehow, I endured the screams and cries of the hundreds who were attacked and savagely assaulted. The footmen had no mercy, and no compulsion about striking those who were weak. Not once did they hold back that day.

My spirit shrieked for Bowman, whom I knew was suffering their pain a thousand times worse than me. I had always been the one who did, and he, my half-self, would always remain the one who felt.

A little while afterwards, the leader rode up on a fine mare. His face glinted in the burning light, and I etched his face into my memories. I could tell from the cruelty in his eyes that this was a man without a conscience, the man responsible for the wide-scale devastation that lay before me.

I made a vow to myself then, a vow that I swore I would not break, a vow that would avenge the spirits of those who had suffered at the hands of this manic individual.

I won't forget you, my enemy.


The last line is a direct quote.