The Lovers, The Dreamers, and Me (short story)

Sometimes, everything just seemed to hurt.

Naturally, choosing to use his empathic gifts often led Yukito down roads of pain, but this was different. Despite the power welling at his fingertips, he could have chosen other paths in life. He didn't have to bruise his skin, or let himself be wounded to assist others. In fact, most of the time, he chose not to. If his choices were to hurt or be hurt, he'd rather make peace or lay a path of torment.

The scent of peaches suffused the evening air, it's summer-sweet flavor making his lips sticky and sweet as he took a swing from his bottle of wine. For some reason today, he'd known it would be a nightmare. He'd seen the black sails approaching, and quailed in fear. Perhaps the leaden defeat in Porfidat's voice had gotten to him; it seemed as if he wasn't the only one displaying just that hint of uncertainty.

Maybe that was this Warlord's biggest weapon. The despair that he seeded before his arrival. The terror that he spread. Time after time during the horrible attack, all Yuki had wanted to do was cover his ears to block out the screaming. It had brought back the nightmare from decades past. Innocents dying in the streets. He'd forgotten how horrible it was to fight the Krolvin. Maybe he'd blocked it all out. This seemed worse, somehow. Maybe because he was living through it again. He couldn't bring himself to sit in their sanctuary. He wouldn't allow himself to be trapped inside and burned alive. The thought alone had him panting in terror. Never again.

It was as if Eryael was leaning over his shoulder and exhaling a sigh of warm breath across the shell of his ear. Compelling him to meet the all-encompassing glimmer of his violet gaze framed, framed so charmingly by his soft features. Demanding that he, and everyone else, bear witness to enlightenment.

He sleeps. He cannot harm us now.

Did he actually manage to teach some form of lesson, as he soaked the streets in blood? Is that why I see him in every act of torture? In simply remembering, am I honoring Mularos? Can I ever forget?

Eryael and the Warlord have one thing in common. They believe in teaching lessons, and breaking the spirit. There is a difference, though...

His head tipped down, and he exhaled all the air inside his lungs in a gust of fragrant cinnamon and spice. Then he inhaled shakily and stood up, draining the last of his bottle. His fingers brushed over the label and traced Tabubu's name, before he set it aside. He'd left the isle in a hurry after the battle. He hoped the people he cared for were alright, but it was too hard to hold in his own pain and fright just now.

Yukito's feet began to move and he smoothly spirited himself away on a glide of magic. Beings that attacked him were neatly avoided, or died with a flick of his fingers. He knew these paths well, and traveled beneath the stars until the sky began to slowly turn pink with the dawn.

As he moved carefully through the forest, a feeling of being watched brought him up short. Immediately, he stopped and tilted his head upward, fidgeting in place just a bit. A Sylvan woman in hunting leather stepped from behind a tree and examined him from head to toe. The hostility faded from her expression almost immediately, but a hint of distrust still lingered on her fierce features.

Yukito didn't care. As she nodded him forward, he nodded gratefully, and increased his pace. As a light blanket of magic enveloped and accepted him, he cast a spell so that his form flickered and vanished. Within the next step, he was standing near a small gathering of people within the trees. Again, that general moment of hesitation among the women gathered, but he was entirely focused on the one with the short-cropped golden blonde hair that was striding quickly toward him.

"Yuki?" Her serious hazel eyes focused on him intently, and Yukito stared up at her silently for a moment. Then he bit back a sob and rushed right into her arms. There might have been murmurs of sympathy around them, perhaps some words commenting on the strength of his character - he ignored every one of them; his behavior wasn't entirely unexpected or uncommon in his family's fairly rare situation within the community.

For the moment, he leaned against his mother and let her lead him away from prying eyes so that he could collect himself, and stop crying. Deep within the shelter of the trees, even though he didn't entirely belong, he felt secure enough to feel his own pain, and allow it to be soothed.

"Rainbow Connection" - Kenneth Ascher and Paul Williams