Chapitre Un

Enter Gwen and the Organization.

*Chapitre Un*

-Geneva Willis-

The stars glow bright this night, their pale light shimmers around a white-cloaked lady appearing suddenly as a wave in the night. She waits, crouching her thin form low to the bespeckled tiles of the temple grounds. Time continues to fly past, and she maintains her sentinel pose knowing they will come. The woman’s golden eyes peer around the marble column concealing her silk-cloaked form, becoming increasingly impatient. As she expects the guards are at long last preparing to change shifts, her only opening. Across the well-decorated hall she spies a black gloved hand wave at her. Silently, she holds her hand out just beyond the pillar to affirm she knows what’s being said.

A little boy’s face appears beside the other pillar and smiles, his dark hair shielding his eyes. Both turn their attention back to the guards as they proceed with what they assume to be a routine changing of the guard. After the original guards pass into the distance, the newly appointed ones relax- it's this simple stupidity that will take them within the minutes following. It always does. Talking amongst themselves neither guard seems aware of any sort of 'issue' nearby, especially not the gold-lit eyes gazing viciously through them. Minutes pass, the guards' posture begins to slacken, and their eyes glaze into day-dreamings of little importance. The woman raises her hand to the boy beyond the far column, then issues a low whistle, immediately ripping the guards' attention away from their fantasizing.

Stupefied by the sound, the men draw their swords, looking wildly about the open-aired temple hall before them. In the split second they may have had to react, a large man -at least twice their size- steps from the shadows and knocks their skulls together with enough force to render them sweetly unconscious. Still hiding behind the pillar, the cloaked-woman’s lips twitch and she glances over to the giant as he paces to her, offering his hand to help her to her feet. Accepting the outstretched palm she stands and mutters, “Kill them all, why don’t you,” flat and humorless.

Mumbling through a salt-and-pepper beard, he humbly whispers, “Neither’s dead, Miss.”

She hisses beneath her hood, “Fine, then proceed,” her words are directed at the man, the boy still hiding, as well as the others she cannot yet see. Delicately stepping over the guards' limp bodies, she stalks over to the massive temple door they previously defended, calling softly, “Ciaran- the door.”

Hurriedly the young black-haired boy rushes from his hiding place and begins picking the elegant, leaf-shaped lock of the stone temple doors- always more ornate than they were effective. Dropping the hood of her cloak to watch him work hair of a bright, luminous white slides across her shoulders in a reflective wave. She studies his dusty hands until the first lock clicks. Simple. The gold orbs of her eyes glance back to the sleeping city laid out behind them to sift out the slightest of disturbances in the distance... And there- through the hazy mist- shadows begin to shift.

Silently she stalks behind a column to her left as two shadows moving rapidly towards them grow clearer; drawing a pistol from her all-concealing cloud-white cloak she vies for a better angle. As the weapon's hammer clicks into place the large man glances back with a furrowed, impatient scowl.

Moments later he hushes the lady's precautionary motions with the names, “Mickey and Tristran.” Both dismiss the previous concern and turn back to the child still working on the locks.

“Rowan,” the man turns to her at mention of his name, “only five?” He nods and watches the two young men run to the her with silent steps. “Get him the coder,” She waves her arm towards Ciaran, who remains on his knees, wholly focused on the leaf-patterned lock.

Immediately the taller of the two boys- Tristran- states in response, “Annie has the ship ready. Cloaking's up, and previous damages dealt with.”

Her eyes spin with contemplation, “We'll see,” she says in a whisper. She directs, “Stay here. Keep watch once we're inside. When I call to you, go to the ship. Affirmative?” He performs a quick half-bow, shaggy, honey-hair swaying, before going to pace near the guardsmens' unconscious bodies.

Mickey watches her, her calm demeanor a bit unnerving. “Lady-“ his voice wavers, “What happens if they ambush like in the terraces?” He stoops quickly, passing a small, rectangular device with a crystal-glass screen to Ciaran- who snatches it up immediately with a pleased grunt of acknowledgment.

Mickey receives a very strained, controlled smile from his fair-haired captain, “Then we run, darling. Nothing more to it.”

About to speak again, he is cut off when Ciaran announces meekly, “The locks are disbanded; there’s still an alarm inside the door, don't trigger it...” Fidgeting with the coder, he stuffs it in the recesses of his long jacket.

Without hesitation, the woman whispers, in a distant voice, “Then open it.” Mickey and Rowan rush forward to help the boy, the lady close behind. The door is inched open so as not to distress the alarm system. A sickening pit whirls into existence deep within the woman's belly with the knowledge she is only able to wait and see if the sirens will trigger. They spare no time to wait and see what transpires, passing through the narrow opening provided and vanishing into the temple. She hisses after them, “Only what you can carry.”

Ciaran grasps the hem of her cloak and has to jog to keep up with her brisk pacing through the antechamber of this foreign place. Glancing down at him, she huffs, “If anything happens, I'm here.” The boy sighs and looks off at the intricate marble carvings along the wall, moving his hand into hers. The temple they have invaded, at some point in its history, would have been bustling with people every night of the year, especially on the eve of the festival as it was now. Since then however, many things have fallen to disrepair, and the once holy place is now only a reminder of the culture society has already forgotten. The guard here is always minimal and the vast sacred treasures inside naively unprotected, much to the delight of the raiding party.

Beyond those front stone doors lay totems, gold, gemstones of varying origins, holy manuscripts, books unknown to the outside world, and murals of history- prophecies long declared as idiocy. Many of these things are quickly stowed away in small bags and pockets as the thieves pass them, even Ciaran runs off to dig through the jewels decorating a shrine along a nearby wall. The woman scuffs, awkward in her silence, to the front of the temple, watching the others in contemplative curiosity. That is, until she spies a narrow hall leading away from the central chamber. The passage seems minimally decorated, save for a stone panel above the entryway bearing the words “Fils de Feu” Son of Fire. Without a thought she passes into the corridor, vanishing from the others' sight.

As she pushes through a heavy, velvety curtain near the end of the hall her eyes come to rest on a pristine, jet-black statue towering over her. The form is of a young man, resting upon his knee, swords crossed over his chest- it's obvious the sculptor had worked for years on this with the passion that had come to be expected from the holy men of Sundorra. Most focused on was the face- the statue's features are smooth and without fault; even the eyes are serene, unearthly in beauty. Directly above the crossing point of the swords is a ruby embedded at the form's heart. Perhaps it is a heart, and it truly is beating within the chest of pure, black marble.

The longer she stares, the stronger the feeling of recognition becomes within her, leaving a scarlet flame burning in the depths of her mind. Minutes pass and she remains motionless, silent, in a state of psychosis. She reaches for the statue and lays her hand on the cold stone- it felt more like glass. Volcanic glass with gentle warmth seeping into her body, radiating from within the ancient stone …

A hand on her shoulder sends her into a sprawling, clawing motion as she spins to face the intruder- the gargantuan hand is Rowan's and it quickly grasps at her little wrists before her nails reach any portion of him. “Miss Guinevere?” His furrowed brow and down-turned mouth betrays his facade of aloof wondering.

Gwen, the pale woman, pulls herself from the chambers of her mind and glowers, “Fine- just thinking.” The man pats her cloaked shoulder in reflection of the concerns plaguing his wrinkled features.

“Find yourself something nice, we've got to be on our way.” He grants her a whisper of a smile and leaves her be, returning to the central chamber with the others.

Cheeks showing a light, rosy tint she frowns at her own inability to detect the man’s presence and turns back to the statue with glowing eyes. Determined, she climbs onto the figure's leg and ducks under the swords to pry the ruby from his heart. At first it refuses to budge, holding into its facet with all its might; with some scratching of her nails across the outer edge it gradually gives itself over. Supporting the thin, palm sized object in the crook of her arm she fidgets through the pockets within her cloak until a length of string is found. She ties the string around the gem and drapes it over her neck, burying it beneath the folds of her watery silk robes. Something nice for herself, and that was the end of it. With one last glance back at the statue of the angelic, onyx-glass man she hurries to join the others.

The gem, heavier than it first seemed, weighs on her, radiating that same warmth first felt from the statue. She calls, “We're moving.” At the sound of her voice the three come to her. Ciaran snakes his hand into hers- his small palm icy to the touch- she pays this no heed. “Tristran,” her voice is just loud enough for the tall blond keeping watch to hear and he stealthily paces to her with a twisted smirk. All present now, Gwen passes her focus to their path of escape, towing Ciaran behind her. Soundlessly the others follow in her wake, Rowan striving to get as close as he can to the lead position should something happen. Within her mind, Gwen mentally recalls the floor plans of the temple one stone at a time. Stumbling into the monks' quarters still near the outer edges is the last thing they need.

They move in frenzied steps with the understanding that the guards are waking about now and triggering the alarms. Gwen speeds on, her motions hastily losing their flow and filling with blazing, stiff frenzy. The halls they pass through are narrow, no more than a simple path for the monks studying to get from one library to another, making their movement that much more hindered. Stopping suddenly she stares down a side hall, “This leads to the courtyard. It's faster,” she says as if it were simple logic. With silent agreement all follow her down the corridor in just under a sprint.

The shadowy, star-filled sky appears suddenly above them, there is no moon. Soft mossy grass silences their footfalls as they pass through the dark edges of an open-aired court. Coming to a wall, Gwen drops the boy's hand and throws herself into the air, propelling herself to the top of the barricade. Latching her arms over the top of a break in a no longer used archery turret she hauls herself up onto flat surface and turns back to the men below her. The wall is nearly three times her height. Stretching out her arms to the others, she waits with her face in a tight-lipped grimace. Rowan, being the tallest, passes Ciaran up to the waiting grasp of the lady. Gradually each takes a turn scaling the surface, by some means, and begins working their way down the other side.

Gwen remains perched at the pinnacle, scanning the nearby streets with slow, methodical intensity while the men contemplate what paths are necessary to get back to the ship. Her gold eyes show off luminescent in the night, and the pendant hanging at her heart has grown into the likeness of a dead albatross...only redeeming in its radiating warmth. She tries desperately to focus her attention on the task at hand, but the image of scarlet fire spirals through her vision- her head shakes- her hands melt into the stone. Light splinters nearby...chimes ~jing~ in the distance, and a smothering delirium engulfs her. Body swaying to the motion of a light ocean breeze she slides off the wall, falling to street, nausea kicking in.

“Sunrise is in half an hour, we won't have time to get out of sight by then,” the words are Tristran's, his face and hair warp together. His lips part and his teeth bulge out in pinpoints.

Gwen fumbles, “No discussion, just go.” Barely giving them a moment to think she scrabbles to her feet, staggering off into the dimly-lit street. When they fail to follow her she peers back at them wide-eyed and bewildered- their mouths open and close, light jagged and their motions jerky, but everything hits her ears in a mixture of screams and silence. They jostle her up into their arms and race for the docks; for all they know she might be dying. Eyes half-lidded, her throat on fire, faces, and buildings, and star-clouds ripple past; heat pulsates through her heart in overtaking waves. Inns and taverns pass by in the corners of her eye, vanishing into an already evanescing universe of sunrises.

All that planning, and yet still something goes horrifyingly wrong. “How much farther?” Throat closing, the words are forced out in more of a gag than actual language. Answers fall down over half-empty faces with rushing wind, and the faint, far off ~jing~ in the voice of someone humming...

Author's Note

Just want to hear some thoughts on this. Feel free to point out issues/grammar...etc.