Tag: Sci Fi Fantasy

The blood of my enemies trickles into the pool of time.

There's a story about "the blood of my enemies" when it comes to Pietas. This excerpts explains it well.

After exiting the pool, Pietas brushed off the water and wrung out his hair. He pulled out a tray holding half a dozen clasps. He chose a silver dragon studded with six turquoise stones, twisted his wet hair and fastened it up, out of the way.

He dried his face, gathered a brush and black face paint. Leaning in close to a freestanding mirror, he outlined a bandit's mask from beneath his eyes to over his dark eyebrows and filled it with black.

He'd worn the mask in battle ever since defeating the First Division, a human special-ops group formed to fight Ultras. It came about because Pietas had slain an enemy and blood had splashed across his eyes. Thinking the blood belonged to Pietas, the Ultra troops had rallied to him and slaughtered the humans. The blood dried almost black.

Stories of how their "bandit king" had conquered the First Division filled the night.

The name stuck. To his troops, he was First Conqueror, War Leader of the Ultras.

Excerpt Origin of Pietas

In this scene, Pietas and Six are on the planet Sempervia, and Pietas has been performing the ritual on his own. Six, being human, is unworthy of taking part.

Taking care in the slippery mud, Pietas left the creek and once more, knelt beside the fire. He unwrapped the leaves holding the small amount of paste he'd created for his mask and applied it with his fingertips. There was no mirror to guide him, but he'd performed the ritual countless times. Once satisfied the mask blackened his eye area, he rested, preparing himself for the injury he must suffer.

He would perform this part alone, having no one worthy to accept his sacrifice. He picked up the knife.

"I, First Conqueror, War Leader of the Ultras, suffer for my people. I bleed for my people." He made a cut along one cheek, not as deep or long as Dessy had made. He bent forward to pull his hair toward the top of his head so he could cut it and was stopped, cold, by the inability to lift his arms far enough to reach. His muscles were still too tight, too drawn and withered to allow the movement.

Pietas remained on his knees, casting about in his mind what to do. How to complete the ritual.

The presence of Six brought both relief and a spike of anger. He sat up and tilted back his head to meet the man's gaze.

"Look, Pietas, before you yell at me, let me speak, okay?" Six knelt beside him. "I'm sorry. I know you said not to watch, but I couldn't look away. I can tell you're having trouble with this part. Let me help you. What do you need?"

The point of this part was to surrender his pride, was it not?

"I'll bow. Pull my hair toward the front and hold it in your fist. Then say, 'What sacrifice do you offer as proof of devotion?' After I answer, cut off the hair in your fist." He held up the knife.

Pietas resumed his position of supplication.

Six lifted Pietas's hair and drew it upward, toward the top of his head.

The sensation of being in his friend's capable hands sent a shockwave of gratitude over Pietas.

"What sacrifice do you offer as proof of devotion?"

"I surrender my pride."

Six's knife went through the wet hair in one clean motion.

Pietas righted himself. "I want to see how you sharpen knives."

Though it was full daylight, they were in shade and the firelight cast flickering shadows on Six's face. "Oh?"

"That blade is impressive."

"Thanks." He folded the knife and holstered it. "It does the job."

"However, you disobeyed a direct order."

Six fastened the safety on the holster, securing the knife. "See, I'm not one of your soldiers." Using a thumb, he wiped away a smear of blood from Pietas's cheek. "Which means you can't give me an order. Therefore, I did no such thing."

He met the man's unwavering gaze. "How you frustrate me, ghost."

"To quote you, 'Good.' Now, what's next?"

"When I performed this ritual before my people, whoever cut my hair had sex with me afterward."

Six's eyes went wide. "You're...kidding, right?"

Pietas let his gaze travel slowly down Six's length and back up before breaking into a smile. "Yes, I am."

"Not funny, Ultra. Anything else?"

"The ritual is complete."

Six gestured to his own eyes. "So that mask is part of your ritual."

"I never wear the mask until I've made myself worthy. And I'm ready for war."

"That means the day we met, you'd done the ritual."

"Yes."

Six cursed under his breath. "So, what else do you need?"

"I'll settle for you helping me up."

"The great Pietas, War Leader of the Ultras, wants help from a mortal? How the mighty have fallen."

Pietas narrowed his eyes. "Ghost, don't make me eat you."

"Yeah? I got two words for you, Ultra. Bring. Salt."

I am powerful, as fire is powerful.

When I conceived the idea of Pietas performing a ritual to remind himself of his own prowess, I knew it would have to include the elements of fire, air, water, and wind. That he used to do it in public but now only in private made me wonder... Why? Why did he stop performing this in public? Why only with his twin sister? He and Dessy cannot be in the same room without sniping at one another. He doesn't trust her, not after she betrayed him many years ago. So why her?

I realized it had to be because he showed her his most vulnerable side to prove he had no fear. Not of injury, not of ridicule, and most certainly not of her.

But it was not until I wrote book two, Forged in Fire, that I realized why he started doing the ritual in the first place. More on that later in the ritual series.

In this scene from book 1 of the Bringer of Chaos series, Pietas is preparing for a ritual with his twin sister.

While Pietas readied himself, his sister twirled the dagger, showing off her expertise.

"You know, Pietas, you should let our people know you still do this ceremony. They'd be impressed by your devotion."

"I don't do it to impress anyone. I do it to ready myself for-- Stop!" Dessy had been sliding one fingertip along the edge of the dagger. He removed it from her grasp, and examined the blade.

"Honestly, Pietas! I was just testing the sharpness."

"I didn't want you to cut yourself."

"I'm as adept with blades as you. More so, if you ask me."

"Not the point. If you'd cut yourself, I'd have to consecrate it again. It can only have my blood or my enemy's."

"You think I'm witless? As if I haven't performed this ceremony with you a hundred times. And here I thought you were concerned for my well-being."

"Stop playing. I told you, I'm busy."

She let out a harsh sigh. "Fine. Let's complete the ritual."

Dagger in hand, Pietas unfastened the clip in his hair, and let it fall. The wet tail slapped the middle of his back. He tossed the clip aside, placed the dagger on his palms, and offered it.

She poised her hand above it. "Who offers this weapon?"

"First Conqueror, War Leader of the Ultras."

She took it from him. "For whom are you willing to suffer?"

"I suffer for my people." Pietas turned his cheek.

Dessy slid the knife tip gently along his face, from cheekbone to chin, drawing a thin trail of blood. "For whom do you bleed?"

"I bleed for my people." By the time the first drop of blood had risen, the cut had healed, leaving no scar.

"What sacrifice do you offer as proof of devotion?"

He went to his knees, and lowered his head. Here was the true reason he no longer performed this ritual before his people. Pietas abased himself before no one.

Except the one woman who held the tattered remnants of his trust, and what little remained of his heart.

"I surrender my pride."

His sister went behind him, and gathered his hair in her fist. Using the razor-sharp blade, she sawed through the wet tail. She crossed to the table, and moved the hide back in place.

Pietas picked up the pants as he stood, and slipped them on. He ruffled his fingers through his hair. It hung around his jaw line.

Dessy brushed it back from his face, and thumbed away a smear of blood.

He clasped her wrist. "Take it out of your pocket."

"What?"

"Whatever it is you took."

"I don't--"

He tightened his grip, and she grimaced. "Take it out of your pocket."

"Let me go." She glared in defiance, the ice in her emotions fierce as a blizzard.

He released her, and the room warmed. He held out his hand.

Dessy reached into a pocket and withdrew his tail of hair. "I'm not giving it back."

"It's mine. I intend to burn it."

"I know. That's why I took it."

He tried to snatch it from her.

She slipped out of reach. "It's mine now, and I want it."

He regarded her a long moment. "I see. You want my DNA because you think I'll be defeated."

"Can you imagine Father's face if told him I wanted to recreate you? He'd sooner burn his lab to the ground."

Those words bit his pride, but the truth of her emotions, her love for him, assuaged it. He motioned for her to give it to him. "Now, Dess."

She stuffed it back in her pocket. "I have nothing of yours, and I've always loved your hair. Let me keep it." She added, "Please."

The last time she'd said that word to him, they were sixteen. His decision to comply had cost him his relationship with his father, and ruined what he'd had with her. She had never said please again. Not to him. That ought to be warning enough. But back then, he'd still had a heart that could break.

It wasn't breakable any more.

"It's hair. Not important." He set a fist over his heart, and bowed.

Smiling, she pressed her palms together and put her hands before her mouth. "Thank you. Now, are you ready for the peace talks?"

"No." He squared his shoulders. "I'm ready for war."

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