Title: Clear Center
Rating: PG-13
Universe: Dak Territories
Continuity: Set around four years after Shadows Behind
Characters/Pairings: Zen, Shaiar, background Beren and Raidan, mention of Shanra and Aruk
Summary: A 16 year old Beren has been sneaking out of camp. Zen follows him, and runs into the God of Death instead
Wordcount: 4119 (I said it got away from me, right?)
Warnings/Notes: Sort of for![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
zarz29's prompt. Also, warnings for implications of ... whatever the godly version of domestic violence is. Aruk, you have to understand, is an asshole
Claimer: Mine!
Clear Center
Beren disappeared every so often. Zen ... tried not to let it worry him. Too much, at least. It wasn't the into-thin-air sort of disappearing that indicated his cousin had been taken, by one side or another. He hoped, anyway. There were some, on either side, who could touch anyone at will, and Zen would never know. Never be able to tell. But thus far, every time for the past four years, his cousin had always come back. Unharmed. Undisturbed. Not even realising Zen had been worried.
If there was one thing about Beren that drove Zen insane, it was that. Did he have no concept of how much Zen feared for him? Did he have no idea ...
Of course not. Beren, much as Zen loved him, had no real concept that anyone, any outside force, could infringe on his own agency. Not even Zen himself. Beren did not take orders. He took suggestions. Sometimes. When he felt like it. At all other times, he did whatever seemed best to him, and him alone, and didn't seem to care overmuch what anyone else thought about it. It was ... infuriating, if Zen was honest. It was incredibly frustrating.
And it also meant that Beren, whenever the fancy took him, would simply wander out of camp for a while, and come back, anywhere from an hour to a few days later, unperturbed and mildly confused that Zen was consequently livid and somewhat wild-eyed.
It was enough to almost make Zen want to kill the kid himself. Almost.
This time, though, was going to be different. This time, Zen was going after him. He was going to follow his cousin's trail, find him, and ... Something. Yell at him in privacy, at the very least. There was that advantage, admittedly. The thin walls of tents and listening ears discouraged making himself clear inside the camp. Some things ... some things about their past, about Beren, were not for public consumption. Not for the others to know. They would not understand, these hardbitten men who had spent their lives making war on gods and the servants of gods. They would not ... understand his cousin. Not understand Zen's fears for him. Might, in fact, turn those fears against Beren. Even try, perhaps, to use Zen against him, to force Zen to choose between them and the cousin he loved.
That would not be allowed. Not now, not ever. Zen believed in their cause, certainly. He believed in the Daemons, and the injustice of the rule of gods. Oh, how he believed that. He had seen the remnants of his village, after all. The remains of his family, slain by the foul touch of a god, in vengeance for sins that had not even been theirs. The Orders may deny it all they liked. The gods themselves could come down from on high, and deny their hand in the plagues. Zen knew the truth. The entire Guild knew the truth. He believed that.
But he also believed in his cousin. He believed Beren had been spared for a reason. And he would not, would never again, allow himself to fear Beren's death. He would never stand aside and allow his cousin to be harmed again.
So. Here he was. Wandering the Forest of Thieves, four hours out from camp, looking for his thrice-cursed 16 year old cousin and his damned, thoughtless, careless wanderlust, not to mention complete and utter obliviousness to the fact that he seemed to positively attract all the wrong sorts of attention and this worried people ...
Zen stopped, for a second. Listening to himself pant slightly in temper, watching in mild curiosity as his hands clenched themselves into white fists. Ah. Hmm. It appeared he was ... rather more worried than he had thought. Or more angry. Perhaps both. He should probably ... That is. He should calm down, perhaps. Before finding Beren. It wouldn't do to ... Well. No. He'd never been able to scare Beren, not even at his most furious. Unlikely that he could do so unintentionally. But still. Better to be ... calmer, at least. Yes.
Only Beren. Only his cousin could do this to him. Everyone else, from the most hardened and sneering Guilder, even the Daemons themselves, the total of two of them that he'd met, Zen had been able to hold his calm. He had been calm, and quiet, and capable, and had never once lost control. Not once. But Beren ...
He stopped. Breathed. Reached out, uncurled one pale hand to rest it against the closest tree. Just breathe. Just for a moment. Then, we can return to our search. With a clearer head, and something closer to a plan. Yes. Just a moment ...
{Guilder?} The low, heavy voice curled through the trees. Quiet, but pervasive.
Zen flinched back from the tree in raw shock, squeaking faintly. A shiver curled up his neck. That voice. He knew ... Oh, no. Please no.
"Where ..." His voice broke. He pulled it back with a snarl of temper. "Where is he? What ..." What happened. Who hurt him. Who killed him. Who ...
The god appeared, silent and serene, at his side. A ghost out of the trees. No. Death, out of the trees. Shaiar was frowning at him, an oddly distempered look on those smooth, grey features. Then, taking in Zen's bleached-pale expression and drawing the correct conclusion, the god ... looked shamed. Briefly. But it was there.
{It is not what you fear,} Shaiar soothed, belatedly. Holding out a hand in strange, stilted instinct, dropping it as fast, before Zen could even think to react. {He is not dead. Nor harmed. Forgive me. I ... forgot what would be thought.}
Zen blinked at him. Unresponsive. He couldn't muster focus for response, while a wave of ... something ... rushed through him. Something cold and shaking, that left him weakened in its wake. He felt his knees shake, try to crumble, and only that particular stubbornness he shared with his cousin stayed them.
"You," he muttered, trembling. "You."
Shaiar winced faintly. {As I said. My apologies.} And perhaps Zen should have found that strange, that a god, a god of such power and fear, should apologise to him, but he was too busy considering it wholly necessary to be worried.
"Do not," he snarled, a flash-fire of ruined temper, before he pulled it back, smothered it in calm. "Forgive me. Forgive me, my Lord." More than a Guilder would give any god, but Shaiar was not any god. Shaiar was Death, and that was more than gods. "You ... I fear for him, and you ..."
{Yes,} the Death god murmured, face once more smooth and impassive. Repressive, Zen suddenly thought. Protective. {It was my mistake. I do not ... speak to many. For ... much that reason.}
Which, yes, made sense. And ... would be a lonely thing, Zen thought vaguely, somewhere in the back of his head, beneath the rush of fear and anger that were still his immediate focus. Those, and a far more immediate, far more pressing concern.
"Where is he?" he asked again. Less accusing this time, calmer. His own smooth, impassive face, save for the faint tremble still in his voice. "Why are you ... Of all people, why do you come to me?"
Shaiar ... grimaced. Faintly, but still. He grimaced, and looked vaguely discomfitted.
{Your cousin is ... meeting someone,} he said eventually. Mouth twisting a little. {I have been ... watching them. To ... be sure of the other's intent.}
Zen's eyebrows shot up, at that, a frown slipping across his features. There were ... far too many worrying aspects, to that. Far, far too many. From Beren meeting someone whose intent worried the God of Death, to what Beren was meeting them for, to the fact that said God of Death had apparently nominated himself as Beren's chaperone (there were times when Zen felt vaguely hysterical, that only around Beren did he have cause to think such things, that one day it might be his duty to explain to other people that Beren was the kind of man for whom such things happened). But. But. First things first.
"Who?" he asked, brusque and clipped. "And, if it worries you so much, why did you leave him to warn me?"
Shaiar blinked at him for a second. Wondering, perhaps, why Zen did not question the truth of his tale, wondering why Zen did not doubt that Shaiar intended well for Beren. Then ... then the Death God smirked.
{They are only two clearings away,} he said, reprovingly. {My awareness extends at least that far. And ... I thought, perhaps, it would be best, for all concerned, if you did not ... walk in on them unwarned?}
Zen ... paused. A number of ... certain concerns, running rapidly through his mind, and the vague, desperate mental plea of Beren, why do you do this to me? Really. Why?
"And ... why would that be?" he asked, cautiously, and tried not to sound too much like he was asking a Death God if his sixteen year old cousin was having an intimate interlude two clearings over. Because that ... Zen had seen and done a lot in his twenty years, but there were some things one simply should not be asked to do.
Shaiar's expression was so carefully still that Zen knew, he just knew, that the god was laughing internally. As if he found the situation hilarious, as if he thought there was something inherently funny about any of this. Which ... which there quite probably was, but until the nerves and the worries subsided, Zen was not going to be admitting that.
Then, though. Then Shaiar sobered, his face relaxing from impassivity into a thoughtful frown. Into some vague concern that had Zen's muscles tightening one after the other.
{Because,} Shaiar said, very softly. {Because you are Guild. Because those men behind you, those men who shelter the pair of you, are also Guild. Because I thought, in light of that, that I should warn you, so you will do nothing rash.}
Zen ... held still. Held very still, for a careful breath, for a careful count of two. So he could be calm when he asked. So he could be clear. "And why would I do anything rash?" he asked, softly, but he already knew. Of course he knew. Beren.
{His companion is a god,} Shaiar answered baldly. Knowingly, and unconcerned. Watching Zen carefully, with black eyes that challenged impassively.
Zen breathed. Again. Felt the tiny quivers running through him. The urge to run to the clearing, the urge to find his cousin, strangle him, save him. He felt the need run through him. Ignored it. For the moment.
"What god?" he asked, clipped and cold. Desperate, but not showing it. Never showing it. "What do they want?"
Shaiar looked at him, long and measuring. Black eyes implacable, stern, unmovable. Judging Zen's intent, still and untouchable as anything in the world. Zen held equally still, under that gaze. Held still as the god weighed him. Chin tilted, defiant, desperate, determined. Beren, I am going to murder you. Myself. Just wait. Just stay alive long enough to let me. Just wait.
{They ... want company,} Shaiar said at last, and Zen blinked at him, nonplussed. {They want ... There are not many, among mortals or spirits, who listen as openly as your cousin does. Not many who ... will sit, and not ask, and let you be near them. It is ... attractive.}
Zen stared at him. For once, he could think of nothing to say. The God of Death ... did not squirm, under a mortal's gaze. But he gave a remarkable impression of wanting to.
{Raidan is ... My nephew is confused, of late. Fearful, angry,} the god explained, uneasily. {His father has ... Aruk has been excitable, of late. Things are moving. The God of War has been moving against them. He is ... not easy to be around. And his son ...}
Zen blinked. And then blinked some more, reaching up to rub vaguely at his temples. "Are you ...?" he started, and then stopped. Tried to think how to phrase this. Failed. "Are you telling me that my sixteen year old cousin is ... what? Offering a godling comfort on falling out with his father?"
Shaiar's expression darkened. And his mien had not been unthreatening to start with.
{I do not speak with my brother,} he rumbled, low and deadly. {I speak with very few of my erstwhile family. But tell me, Guilder. Knowing the temper and pride of the God of War. Having seen it play out in the mortal world. How do you imagine such a disappointing son, patron of rain, should deal with said temper? And, perhaps more to the point, how do you imagine Aruk should respond to such a challenge?}
Zen let himself flinch, a little. Put like that, perhaps he could imagine. He just didn't really want to. He was Guild. He believed in the Guild. He did not ... wish to imagine the gods he hated as if they were people. Shaiar was enough of an exception, and that only because of Beren. Only because his cousin ...
Because his cousin had never hated. Never feared. That most frustrating of all things about Beren. Even though he had been there. Even though Beren had been the one pulled from charred remains of their plague-torn village, even though Beren had seen first hand the predations of gods, and almost died for them. Beren never hated, and never feared, and never once thought he should flinch from the grey god that shadowed him, and never once thought he should declare war on the bright gods that demanded innocents suffer for some else's defiance. Beren, who had followed Zen into the Guild out of no sense of hatred, but ... But desire, Zen knew, he knew, simply to protect Zen himself. Simply to guard his family, the one person who remained of it, and keep him safe.
And Zen ... Zen would repay that. Zen wanted nothing, nothing more than to repay that. To keep Beren safe in his turn. The only part of Zen's family that had been spared, the only thing he had left. He had to keep him safe. Had to.
Even if that meant consorting with gods? Shaiar was excusable, maybe. None gainsayed Death. But another? Even if it meant consorting with another? Even if it meant ... meant standing in the forest, only four hours from a group of men who trusted him, and a Daemon woman he thought might have earned his loyalty, and a group who would kill him and his cousin where they stood, if they could see who he was talking to right now? Even if it meant following Beren, as Beren had followed him, into a war that ... That might not be so clear-cut as Zen, as all of them, desperately wanted it to be?
He stood, under the dark, impassive eyes of the God of Death. He stood, and he thought, and he breathed. Calmed himself. Cleared himself. His gift, that. Always, his gift. That bright, sparking thing that had first attracted the attention of his master, a thief of some skill. The gift that had led him to an apprenticeship in the Kainordak that, in the end, spared his life. This calm. This cold, clean center, from which he might view the world, from which he might think, and see, and draw clean lines of movement from it. This center, from which he faced the truth, divorced of emotion, and acted upon it.
Would he keep Beren safe, if it meant challenging the Guild itself, the Daemons, the Gods? Would he stand by his cousin, if it meant putting aside even those causes he believed it? Would he stand by Beren, even in the face of Death?
Yes. Yes. There was no other answer. There could not be another answer.
However. That did not mean ...
He frowned. Ignored how Shaiar's gaze turned speculative, ignored how the Death God's watching turned interested, and perhaps cautiously hopeful. He frowned, focused inward. Thoughtful. Confused.
Beren had been spared for a reason. He had known that. Touched once, twice, and thrice. Zen knew what that meant. There were those who didn't, but Zen was not among them. He had looked, and learned, everything that might keep his cousin safe, everything that might put him at risk. He knew what it meant, to stand beneath the hands of the Sisters. And Beren ... Beren had always been this way. Always been as he was now, at least the basics of it. Always been open, and unbiased, and immovable, once he had decided. There had to be a reason Beren, of all people, was so chosen.
And if there was a reason, and it was higher than gods and daemons, unbiased to gods and daemons ...
Zen believed in the Daemon cause. He believed in the Guild. He believed that the gods were long, long due a comeuppance, long due something to shake them from their high, oblivious perches and show them what they had done. Show them why it mattered. Zen believed that, with every vehement breath within him.
But he believed in Beren more. And Beren, though he yet treated with gods, had come with him. Beren had joined the Guild alongside him, and personally motivated though it had been, Beren did not betray his promises. If Beren had joined the Guild, then Beren would honour its purpose. At least as he saw it. At least as he believed best. Zen ... might not agree with him. Might not know where the path Beren was following would lead.
But he trusted his cousin. He trusted him. And ... perhaps, if the Sisters had chosen him ... Perhaps there were other, greater powers, who trusted Beren too.
Zen took a breath. Long and slow, holding it, letting it gather the confusion, the fear, the worry within him. He held it. And then, he let it out, letting the calm settle over him, letting the stillness take him. Letting in the cold center, from which he might draw bright lines of movement.
Beren treated with gods. Very well. Beren had given oath to the Guild. Very well. Zen's first duty was to Beren. Very well. His second, though, was to his oath, and his patron, and his cause. Very well. Beren knew this. Beren supported him in this. Beren would not betray him. Those gods he had met, those gods Zen had met, were ... Not evil. Not as he ... had believed. Had clung to the belief. Not that. Very well. Very ... very well.
So, then. His actions, for now at least, were clear.
He must trust Beren, not to betray them. He must keep the pair of them safe. To do that, he must put them in a place untouchable by the Guild, so that he would have the power to assure them of his cousin's fealty. He must serve his Guild, to the best of his ability, must keep them safe, too. He must discover the lives of gods, and daemons, the better to judge who among them was worth listening to. He must treat them as people, and judge their actions accordingly.
He must, he thought, take over the Guild. He must, he thought, insinuate himself among the Daemons. Gods, he could leave to Beren. None among them would have him anyway, now. Gods, he would leave to his cousin's discretion. But the daemons, like the Guild, must be his. They must have both, if they were to survive this.
That was ... Surprisingly, perhaps, that was doable. Not immediately. Not right now. But the Lady Shanra, Daemon of Shadows, had treated well with him, that last meeting. He had been trained as a thief, trained in the more secret arts she espoused. She might ... favour him, should he prove himself to her. And, from her, from a patron, he might ... do much more. Climb much farther. Those men behind him. Hardened, embittered. Desperate enemies of the Orders, but much less organised. Much less supported. Less rich, less supplied, less well commanded. That should change. He could make that change.
Beren ... Beren would do as he pleased. Zen was, slowly and somewhat bitterly, coming to realise that. Beren would ... sneak from camp as he pleased, to treat with gods in the forest. But ... If Beren knew he did not have to sneak. Not from Zen, at least. If he knew ... that his cousin understood, and would support him, protect him ...
Zen blinked. Shook himself from that inner space, breathed casually once again. Looked up, still blinking the shadows of thought from his eyes, and met the calm, black stare of Shaiar, the God of Death. Who watched him, cautious and impassive and patient as the turn of aeons, even ... minutes later? How much time ...?
But no matter. No matter, when the action was now clear. When the temper had seeped, and determination replaced it. No matter, now, his reasons for coming here. Only, now, his reasons for continuing.
"Where is my cousin?" he asked, steadying, and impassive as the God himself. "Which direction?"
Shaiar studied him thoughtfully. As if considering refusing him, perhaps. Mayhap the sudden calm worried him. But ... no. Zen looked into those dark eyes, and saw not. Shaiar was simply ... weighing him. The extent of his determination. And then ...
{There,} the Death God said, quietly, pointing southwards. {Two clearings, as I said. They are sitting, still. Raidan has ... calmed.} A small warning, there, implicit. Do not disquiet him. Do not bring my nephew fear. And that ... Suddenly, briefly, in a bubble of vague humour, Zen was curious.
"You like him?" he asked, softly, curiously. "This nephew? I thought you did not speak with other gods."
Shaiar smiled at him. Sort of. A faint curve of his lips, a crinkling about his eyes, impossibly tired, impossibly weary. {I do not,} he said, softly. {But that is their choice more than mine. My nephew ... fears me, much as any other. Were I to appear before him, he would flinch from me as surely as you did. I do not speak with him. But I have ... watched him. I have watched my brother, and my brother's wife, and all the gods. I have ... seen.}
And there were worlds, in that. Aeons, in those three words, memories, pains, crawling behind the Death God's eyes, an endless weariness, an endless emptiness, within a soft regard. And Zen was struck, then, so suddenly, with the knowledge that this was what Beren must have seen. This was what his cousin, still then a child, had looked into a dark god's eyes, and seen, and moved to touch. Moved to alleviate. This ... this was why. This was why Beren did not fear. Did not hate.
"He doesn't flinch from you," he said, barely more than a whisper, looking at the god with new eyes. "Beren. He doesn't fear you. He ... fears for you, doesn't he? He would move to defend you."
Shaiar smiled, then. Truly, this time, though still wry, still rueful. {As I said,} he murmured, quietly. {There are few like your cousin, Guilder. None in all the world. At least ... none I had the chance to save. To serve.}
And Zen ... had to laugh, a little, at that. Not mockingly. Not cruel. Just ... rueful, and disbelieving, and Beren, Beren, how do you do this to us? How did his cousin do this?
"Serve," he repeated. Not a blow. Still not a blow. "Does he know? Does he know a god, the God of Death, would serve him? Does my cousin know that?"
Shaiar smiled serenely. {Does he know you would?} he asked, as mildly. {Does he know the extent of what you would do for him? Does he know ... you would trust him over causes? Over daemons, and gods? Does he know you would act for him, regardless?}
Zen took the blow. Accepted it, and smiled a return. Rueful, that he should share this with a god, with Shaiar, in mutual self-amusement. "Not yet," he acknowledged, gently. "Not yet. But ... very shortly, he will. He and his godling." A small laugh. "Though, please. Allow me at least the pleasure of startling them. Allow me at least that measure of vengeance, for what he puts us through?"
And Shaiar grinned, a more deadly, a more mischievous expression than might be expected of the dour Death God, and bowed Zen passage, offered him access unrestricted, and a small measure of vengeance for them both.
Beren, Beren, Beren, Zen thought. Cousin, you have not the first clue what you have unleashed, have you?
No matter. No matter. Very shortly, you will. And I, cousin dearest, shall much enjoy the revelation.
Rating: PG-13
Universe: Dak Territories
Continuity: Set around four years after Shadows Behind
Characters/Pairings: Zen, Shaiar, background Beren and Raidan, mention of Shanra and Aruk
Summary: A 16 year old Beren has been sneaking out of camp. Zen follows him, and runs into the God of Death instead
Wordcount: 4119 (I said it got away from me, right?)
Warnings/Notes: Sort of for
zarz29's prompt. Also, warnings for implications of ... whatever the godly version of domestic violence is. Aruk, you have to understand, is an assholeClaimer: Mine!
Clear Center
Beren disappeared every so often. Zen ... tried not to let it worry him. Too much, at least. It wasn't the into-thin-air sort of disappearing that indicated his cousin had been taken, by one side or another. He hoped, anyway. There were some, on either side, who could touch anyone at will, and Zen would never know. Never be able to tell. But thus far, every time for the past four years, his cousin had always come back. Unharmed. Undisturbed. Not even realising Zen had been worried.
If there was one thing about Beren that drove Zen insane, it was that. Did he have no concept of how much Zen feared for him? Did he have no idea ...
Of course not. Beren, much as Zen loved him, had no real concept that anyone, any outside force, could infringe on his own agency. Not even Zen himself. Beren did not take orders. He took suggestions. Sometimes. When he felt like it. At all other times, he did whatever seemed best to him, and him alone, and didn't seem to care overmuch what anyone else thought about it. It was ... infuriating, if Zen was honest. It was incredibly frustrating.
And it also meant that Beren, whenever the fancy took him, would simply wander out of camp for a while, and come back, anywhere from an hour to a few days later, unperturbed and mildly confused that Zen was consequently livid and somewhat wild-eyed.
It was enough to almost make Zen want to kill the kid himself. Almost.
This time, though, was going to be different. This time, Zen was going after him. He was going to follow his cousin's trail, find him, and ... Something. Yell at him in privacy, at the very least. There was that advantage, admittedly. The thin walls of tents and listening ears discouraged making himself clear inside the camp. Some things ... some things about their past, about Beren, were not for public consumption. Not for the others to know. They would not understand, these hardbitten men who had spent their lives making war on gods and the servants of gods. They would not ... understand his cousin. Not understand Zen's fears for him. Might, in fact, turn those fears against Beren. Even try, perhaps, to use Zen against him, to force Zen to choose between them and the cousin he loved.
That would not be allowed. Not now, not ever. Zen believed in their cause, certainly. He believed in the Daemons, and the injustice of the rule of gods. Oh, how he believed that. He had seen the remnants of his village, after all. The remains of his family, slain by the foul touch of a god, in vengeance for sins that had not even been theirs. The Orders may deny it all they liked. The gods themselves could come down from on high, and deny their hand in the plagues. Zen knew the truth. The entire Guild knew the truth. He believed that.
But he also believed in his cousin. He believed Beren had been spared for a reason. And he would not, would never again, allow himself to fear Beren's death. He would never stand aside and allow his cousin to be harmed again.
So. Here he was. Wandering the Forest of Thieves, four hours out from camp, looking for his thrice-cursed 16 year old cousin and his damned, thoughtless, careless wanderlust, not to mention complete and utter obliviousness to the fact that he seemed to positively attract all the wrong sorts of attention and this worried people ...
Zen stopped, for a second. Listening to himself pant slightly in temper, watching in mild curiosity as his hands clenched themselves into white fists. Ah. Hmm. It appeared he was ... rather more worried than he had thought. Or more angry. Perhaps both. He should probably ... That is. He should calm down, perhaps. Before finding Beren. It wouldn't do to ... Well. No. He'd never been able to scare Beren, not even at his most furious. Unlikely that he could do so unintentionally. But still. Better to be ... calmer, at least. Yes.
Only Beren. Only his cousin could do this to him. Everyone else, from the most hardened and sneering Guilder, even the Daemons themselves, the total of two of them that he'd met, Zen had been able to hold his calm. He had been calm, and quiet, and capable, and had never once lost control. Not once. But Beren ...
He stopped. Breathed. Reached out, uncurled one pale hand to rest it against the closest tree. Just breathe. Just for a moment. Then, we can return to our search. With a clearer head, and something closer to a plan. Yes. Just a moment ...
{Guilder?} The low, heavy voice curled through the trees. Quiet, but pervasive.
Zen flinched back from the tree in raw shock, squeaking faintly. A shiver curled up his neck. That voice. He knew ... Oh, no. Please no.
"Where ..." His voice broke. He pulled it back with a snarl of temper. "Where is he? What ..." What happened. Who hurt him. Who killed him. Who ...
The god appeared, silent and serene, at his side. A ghost out of the trees. No. Death, out of the trees. Shaiar was frowning at him, an oddly distempered look on those smooth, grey features. Then, taking in Zen's bleached-pale expression and drawing the correct conclusion, the god ... looked shamed. Briefly. But it was there.
{It is not what you fear,} Shaiar soothed, belatedly. Holding out a hand in strange, stilted instinct, dropping it as fast, before Zen could even think to react. {He is not dead. Nor harmed. Forgive me. I ... forgot what would be thought.}
Zen blinked at him. Unresponsive. He couldn't muster focus for response, while a wave of ... something ... rushed through him. Something cold and shaking, that left him weakened in its wake. He felt his knees shake, try to crumble, and only that particular stubbornness he shared with his cousin stayed them.
"You," he muttered, trembling. "You."
Shaiar winced faintly. {As I said. My apologies.} And perhaps Zen should have found that strange, that a god, a god of such power and fear, should apologise to him, but he was too busy considering it wholly necessary to be worried.
"Do not," he snarled, a flash-fire of ruined temper, before he pulled it back, smothered it in calm. "Forgive me. Forgive me, my Lord." More than a Guilder would give any god, but Shaiar was not any god. Shaiar was Death, and that was more than gods. "You ... I fear for him, and you ..."
{Yes,} the Death god murmured, face once more smooth and impassive. Repressive, Zen suddenly thought. Protective. {It was my mistake. I do not ... speak to many. For ... much that reason.}
Which, yes, made sense. And ... would be a lonely thing, Zen thought vaguely, somewhere in the back of his head, beneath the rush of fear and anger that were still his immediate focus. Those, and a far more immediate, far more pressing concern.
"Where is he?" he asked again. Less accusing this time, calmer. His own smooth, impassive face, save for the faint tremble still in his voice. "Why are you ... Of all people, why do you come to me?"
Shaiar ... grimaced. Faintly, but still. He grimaced, and looked vaguely discomfitted.
{Your cousin is ... meeting someone,} he said eventually. Mouth twisting a little. {I have been ... watching them. To ... be sure of the other's intent.}
Zen's eyebrows shot up, at that, a frown slipping across his features. There were ... far too many worrying aspects, to that. Far, far too many. From Beren meeting someone whose intent worried the God of Death, to what Beren was meeting them for, to the fact that said God of Death had apparently nominated himself as Beren's chaperone (there were times when Zen felt vaguely hysterical, that only around Beren did he have cause to think such things, that one day it might be his duty to explain to other people that Beren was the kind of man for whom such things happened). But. But. First things first.
"Who?" he asked, brusque and clipped. "And, if it worries you so much, why did you leave him to warn me?"
Shaiar blinked at him for a second. Wondering, perhaps, why Zen did not question the truth of his tale, wondering why Zen did not doubt that Shaiar intended well for Beren. Then ... then the Death God smirked.
{They are only two clearings away,} he said, reprovingly. {My awareness extends at least that far. And ... I thought, perhaps, it would be best, for all concerned, if you did not ... walk in on them unwarned?}
Zen ... paused. A number of ... certain concerns, running rapidly through his mind, and the vague, desperate mental plea of Beren, why do you do this to me? Really. Why?
"And ... why would that be?" he asked, cautiously, and tried not to sound too much like he was asking a Death God if his sixteen year old cousin was having an intimate interlude two clearings over. Because that ... Zen had seen and done a lot in his twenty years, but there were some things one simply should not be asked to do.
Shaiar's expression was so carefully still that Zen knew, he just knew, that the god was laughing internally. As if he found the situation hilarious, as if he thought there was something inherently funny about any of this. Which ... which there quite probably was, but until the nerves and the worries subsided, Zen was not going to be admitting that.
Then, though. Then Shaiar sobered, his face relaxing from impassivity into a thoughtful frown. Into some vague concern that had Zen's muscles tightening one after the other.
{Because,} Shaiar said, very softly. {Because you are Guild. Because those men behind you, those men who shelter the pair of you, are also Guild. Because I thought, in light of that, that I should warn you, so you will do nothing rash.}
Zen ... held still. Held very still, for a careful breath, for a careful count of two. So he could be calm when he asked. So he could be clear. "And why would I do anything rash?" he asked, softly, but he already knew. Of course he knew. Beren.
{His companion is a god,} Shaiar answered baldly. Knowingly, and unconcerned. Watching Zen carefully, with black eyes that challenged impassively.
Zen breathed. Again. Felt the tiny quivers running through him. The urge to run to the clearing, the urge to find his cousin, strangle him, save him. He felt the need run through him. Ignored it. For the moment.
"What god?" he asked, clipped and cold. Desperate, but not showing it. Never showing it. "What do they want?"
Shaiar looked at him, long and measuring. Black eyes implacable, stern, unmovable. Judging Zen's intent, still and untouchable as anything in the world. Zen held equally still, under that gaze. Held still as the god weighed him. Chin tilted, defiant, desperate, determined. Beren, I am going to murder you. Myself. Just wait. Just stay alive long enough to let me. Just wait.
{They ... want company,} Shaiar said at last, and Zen blinked at him, nonplussed. {They want ... There are not many, among mortals or spirits, who listen as openly as your cousin does. Not many who ... will sit, and not ask, and let you be near them. It is ... attractive.}
Zen stared at him. For once, he could think of nothing to say. The God of Death ... did not squirm, under a mortal's gaze. But he gave a remarkable impression of wanting to.
{Raidan is ... My nephew is confused, of late. Fearful, angry,} the god explained, uneasily. {His father has ... Aruk has been excitable, of late. Things are moving. The God of War has been moving against them. He is ... not easy to be around. And his son ...}
Zen blinked. And then blinked some more, reaching up to rub vaguely at his temples. "Are you ...?" he started, and then stopped. Tried to think how to phrase this. Failed. "Are you telling me that my sixteen year old cousin is ... what? Offering a godling comfort on falling out with his father?"
Shaiar's expression darkened. And his mien had not been unthreatening to start with.
{I do not speak with my brother,} he rumbled, low and deadly. {I speak with very few of my erstwhile family. But tell me, Guilder. Knowing the temper and pride of the God of War. Having seen it play out in the mortal world. How do you imagine such a disappointing son, patron of rain, should deal with said temper? And, perhaps more to the point, how do you imagine Aruk should respond to such a challenge?}
Zen let himself flinch, a little. Put like that, perhaps he could imagine. He just didn't really want to. He was Guild. He believed in the Guild. He did not ... wish to imagine the gods he hated as if they were people. Shaiar was enough of an exception, and that only because of Beren. Only because his cousin ...
Because his cousin had never hated. Never feared. That most frustrating of all things about Beren. Even though he had been there. Even though Beren had been the one pulled from charred remains of their plague-torn village, even though Beren had seen first hand the predations of gods, and almost died for them. Beren never hated, and never feared, and never once thought he should flinch from the grey god that shadowed him, and never once thought he should declare war on the bright gods that demanded innocents suffer for some else's defiance. Beren, who had followed Zen into the Guild out of no sense of hatred, but ... But desire, Zen knew, he knew, simply to protect Zen himself. Simply to guard his family, the one person who remained of it, and keep him safe.
And Zen ... Zen would repay that. Zen wanted nothing, nothing more than to repay that. To keep Beren safe in his turn. The only part of Zen's family that had been spared, the only thing he had left. He had to keep him safe. Had to.
Even if that meant consorting with gods? Shaiar was excusable, maybe. None gainsayed Death. But another? Even if it meant consorting with another? Even if it meant ... meant standing in the forest, only four hours from a group of men who trusted him, and a Daemon woman he thought might have earned his loyalty, and a group who would kill him and his cousin where they stood, if they could see who he was talking to right now? Even if it meant following Beren, as Beren had followed him, into a war that ... That might not be so clear-cut as Zen, as all of them, desperately wanted it to be?
He stood, under the dark, impassive eyes of the God of Death. He stood, and he thought, and he breathed. Calmed himself. Cleared himself. His gift, that. Always, his gift. That bright, sparking thing that had first attracted the attention of his master, a thief of some skill. The gift that had led him to an apprenticeship in the Kainordak that, in the end, spared his life. This calm. This cold, clean center, from which he might view the world, from which he might think, and see, and draw clean lines of movement from it. This center, from which he faced the truth, divorced of emotion, and acted upon it.
Would he keep Beren safe, if it meant challenging the Guild itself, the Daemons, the Gods? Would he stand by his cousin, if it meant putting aside even those causes he believed it? Would he stand by Beren, even in the face of Death?
Yes. Yes. There was no other answer. There could not be another answer.
However. That did not mean ...
He frowned. Ignored how Shaiar's gaze turned speculative, ignored how the Death God's watching turned interested, and perhaps cautiously hopeful. He frowned, focused inward. Thoughtful. Confused.
Beren had been spared for a reason. He had known that. Touched once, twice, and thrice. Zen knew what that meant. There were those who didn't, but Zen was not among them. He had looked, and learned, everything that might keep his cousin safe, everything that might put him at risk. He knew what it meant, to stand beneath the hands of the Sisters. And Beren ... Beren had always been this way. Always been as he was now, at least the basics of it. Always been open, and unbiased, and immovable, once he had decided. There had to be a reason Beren, of all people, was so chosen.
And if there was a reason, and it was higher than gods and daemons, unbiased to gods and daemons ...
Zen believed in the Daemon cause. He believed in the Guild. He believed that the gods were long, long due a comeuppance, long due something to shake them from their high, oblivious perches and show them what they had done. Show them why it mattered. Zen believed that, with every vehement breath within him.
But he believed in Beren more. And Beren, though he yet treated with gods, had come with him. Beren had joined the Guild alongside him, and personally motivated though it had been, Beren did not betray his promises. If Beren had joined the Guild, then Beren would honour its purpose. At least as he saw it. At least as he believed best. Zen ... might not agree with him. Might not know where the path Beren was following would lead.
But he trusted his cousin. He trusted him. And ... perhaps, if the Sisters had chosen him ... Perhaps there were other, greater powers, who trusted Beren too.
Zen took a breath. Long and slow, holding it, letting it gather the confusion, the fear, the worry within him. He held it. And then, he let it out, letting the calm settle over him, letting the stillness take him. Letting in the cold center, from which he might draw bright lines of movement.
Beren treated with gods. Very well. Beren had given oath to the Guild. Very well. Zen's first duty was to Beren. Very well. His second, though, was to his oath, and his patron, and his cause. Very well. Beren knew this. Beren supported him in this. Beren would not betray him. Those gods he had met, those gods Zen had met, were ... Not evil. Not as he ... had believed. Had clung to the belief. Not that. Very well. Very ... very well.
So, then. His actions, for now at least, were clear.
He must trust Beren, not to betray them. He must keep the pair of them safe. To do that, he must put them in a place untouchable by the Guild, so that he would have the power to assure them of his cousin's fealty. He must serve his Guild, to the best of his ability, must keep them safe, too. He must discover the lives of gods, and daemons, the better to judge who among them was worth listening to. He must treat them as people, and judge their actions accordingly.
He must, he thought, take over the Guild. He must, he thought, insinuate himself among the Daemons. Gods, he could leave to Beren. None among them would have him anyway, now. Gods, he would leave to his cousin's discretion. But the daemons, like the Guild, must be his. They must have both, if they were to survive this.
That was ... Surprisingly, perhaps, that was doable. Not immediately. Not right now. But the Lady Shanra, Daemon of Shadows, had treated well with him, that last meeting. He had been trained as a thief, trained in the more secret arts she espoused. She might ... favour him, should he prove himself to her. And, from her, from a patron, he might ... do much more. Climb much farther. Those men behind him. Hardened, embittered. Desperate enemies of the Orders, but much less organised. Much less supported. Less rich, less supplied, less well commanded. That should change. He could make that change.
Beren ... Beren would do as he pleased. Zen was, slowly and somewhat bitterly, coming to realise that. Beren would ... sneak from camp as he pleased, to treat with gods in the forest. But ... If Beren knew he did not have to sneak. Not from Zen, at least. If he knew ... that his cousin understood, and would support him, protect him ...
Zen blinked. Shook himself from that inner space, breathed casually once again. Looked up, still blinking the shadows of thought from his eyes, and met the calm, black stare of Shaiar, the God of Death. Who watched him, cautious and impassive and patient as the turn of aeons, even ... minutes later? How much time ...?
But no matter. No matter, when the action was now clear. When the temper had seeped, and determination replaced it. No matter, now, his reasons for coming here. Only, now, his reasons for continuing.
"Where is my cousin?" he asked, steadying, and impassive as the God himself. "Which direction?"
Shaiar studied him thoughtfully. As if considering refusing him, perhaps. Mayhap the sudden calm worried him. But ... no. Zen looked into those dark eyes, and saw not. Shaiar was simply ... weighing him. The extent of his determination. And then ...
{There,} the Death God said, quietly, pointing southwards. {Two clearings, as I said. They are sitting, still. Raidan has ... calmed.} A small warning, there, implicit. Do not disquiet him. Do not bring my nephew fear. And that ... Suddenly, briefly, in a bubble of vague humour, Zen was curious.
"You like him?" he asked, softly, curiously. "This nephew? I thought you did not speak with other gods."
Shaiar smiled at him. Sort of. A faint curve of his lips, a crinkling about his eyes, impossibly tired, impossibly weary. {I do not,} he said, softly. {But that is their choice more than mine. My nephew ... fears me, much as any other. Were I to appear before him, he would flinch from me as surely as you did. I do not speak with him. But I have ... watched him. I have watched my brother, and my brother's wife, and all the gods. I have ... seen.}
And there were worlds, in that. Aeons, in those three words, memories, pains, crawling behind the Death God's eyes, an endless weariness, an endless emptiness, within a soft regard. And Zen was struck, then, so suddenly, with the knowledge that this was what Beren must have seen. This was what his cousin, still then a child, had looked into a dark god's eyes, and seen, and moved to touch. Moved to alleviate. This ... this was why. This was why Beren did not fear. Did not hate.
"He doesn't flinch from you," he said, barely more than a whisper, looking at the god with new eyes. "Beren. He doesn't fear you. He ... fears for you, doesn't he? He would move to defend you."
Shaiar smiled, then. Truly, this time, though still wry, still rueful. {As I said,} he murmured, quietly. {There are few like your cousin, Guilder. None in all the world. At least ... none I had the chance to save. To serve.}
And Zen ... had to laugh, a little, at that. Not mockingly. Not cruel. Just ... rueful, and disbelieving, and Beren, Beren, how do you do this to us? How did his cousin do this?
"Serve," he repeated. Not a blow. Still not a blow. "Does he know? Does he know a god, the God of Death, would serve him? Does my cousin know that?"
Shaiar smiled serenely. {Does he know you would?} he asked, as mildly. {Does he know the extent of what you would do for him? Does he know ... you would trust him over causes? Over daemons, and gods? Does he know you would act for him, regardless?}
Zen took the blow. Accepted it, and smiled a return. Rueful, that he should share this with a god, with Shaiar, in mutual self-amusement. "Not yet," he acknowledged, gently. "Not yet. But ... very shortly, he will. He and his godling." A small laugh. "Though, please. Allow me at least the pleasure of startling them. Allow me at least that measure of vengeance, for what he puts us through?"
And Shaiar grinned, a more deadly, a more mischievous expression than might be expected of the dour Death God, and bowed Zen passage, offered him access unrestricted, and a small measure of vengeance for them both.
Beren, Beren, Beren, Zen thought. Cousin, you have not the first clue what you have unleashed, have you?
No matter. No matter. Very shortly, you will. And I, cousin dearest, shall much enjoy the revelation.
