War & Strategy
Chapter II: Remains
Synopsis: When a crisis threatens the entire Empire of Sky, Head Strategist Alto is forced to into an uneasy alliance with Dusk—a man who seems more Krill than Moth.
Warnings: None
Fandom: Sky: Children of the Light (with heavy canon divergence)
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Dark hands smooth along the wood balcony. Dusk pulls his black scarf down, and inhales—the air is thin and cold from the height. Seasalt and birdshit burn his nostrils down to his lungs. It's not an unpleasant smell; just different. Dusk watches them—the people beneath him. They stream through the streets like water. Dusk remembers when such rivers flowed in the Golden Wasteland. The water was clear and plentiful, before the Krill drifted in like a storm. The glow of their eyes cut through the darkness. Mandibles clicking—chattering, unseen beyond tall, black rocks.
It was cold there, too. Here, the sun claws at his skin, and the people are just as unfriendly. He is a dirty smudge on their polished marble.
Footsteps.
Dusk slings one leg over the railing. He peers at the steps just before the entrance.
There was Alto; his face gaunt and eyes heavy. An older man, his gait uneven, walks beside him. As they arrive on the first steps, they turn, face each other, and began to whisper. But Dusk hears their voices—even their mismatched heartbeats—there was no hiding from him.
"I'll see the end of it, Colonel." Alto affirms.
Colonel nods, his face carved from stern wrinkles and dark skin. "I've no doubt in my mind about that, Sir Alto." He watches him with an air of suspicion, gold eyes flicking up and down. "As for your companion…" His voice trails.
"—You don't have to worry about him, Colonel." Alto says. "He won't be here long. Trust me."
Dusk stands, listening. His claw-like fingers dig into the balcony, scraping marks into the wood.
Despite the bustling crowd within earshot, the silence grows thick in the air between Colonel and Alto. The Colonel, eyes hard and unreadable, studies Alto with great reluctance. Almost concern.
"I'll leave you to it then," Colonel says.
Alto reaches for a handshake. The Colonel takes it, but his grip is weak and he withdraws quickly. They walk their separate ways without a word. Alto stands in a daze.
He suddenly looks to the sky. Dusk scrambles backward out of sight. Alto narrows his eyes, as he does, a flock of ravens suddenly burst over Dusk's head. They shoot across the Empire in a cawing swarm.
"Damn pigeons," Alto shook his head, and without skipping a beat, he walks inside. Perhaps assuming he was sleep-deprived, and that his mind was playing tricks.
Heart trembling, Dusk struggles to compose himself. That was too close.
A chill crawls down his spine. He senses the man behind him before they spoke.
"Sir?" came that familiar, meek voice.
Nimbus.
Dusk turns. The man across the balcony is short. His shoulders sloping, almost feminine in shape. He holds a clipboard tight to his chest, willing it to shelter him from whatever came next. Weaklings like him wouldn't last a day where Dusk was from. Such formalities he cared little for.
"It's just Dusk," he answers. No emotion in his voice. Nimbus trembles in response, as though his voice frightened him. Dusk's pupils dilate—just a fraction. Enough for Nimbus to notice.
"Ah, I see." Nimbus clears his throat. "The Head Strategist has called for you."
Dusk's limbs began moving before his brain catches up. He peels away from the railing, his boots thudding on the balcony. As they stand face-to-face, Nimbus looks up into that dark face, now crushingly aware of how small he is. Good.
"Needs me? Well then, lead the way." Dusk says, his breath ruffling Nimbus' hair.
Nimbus purses his lips. His eyes don't meet him. Without a word, he leads Dusk into the tower. Opening an old door, his torch spills light forth, revealing a stairwell that spirals into void. Inside, the chill of the high winds can't reach them, though the gust still scrape along the walls. Dusk traces the wall, rough and crumbling, with claws that echo. The man in front of him stiffens with each sound.
This tower was old, crumbling. The air reeks of musk and the wooden steps groan with each step. It was Alto's suggestion to house him up here for the time being, although "house" implies there'd be some hospitality. Dusk felt more like a bad dog chained outside. Even as Alto suggested the plan with that smug, punchable face he always wore, Dusk hadn't cared to protest. He doesn't want to see the people, and the people don't want to see him.
The steps keen, like bats exposed to light. Dusk notices Nimbus' nape, pale and open. The skin teases him. He hasn't stolen someone's light in so long… it would be stupid easy. Old battles blur on the back of his eyelids—he tastes light cracking between his teeth. The fresh light of a Skykid is euphoric; sweet, like sugar and starlight on his tongue. They never made a sound when he took their light. Most of them never saw him coming. Dusk licks his teeth as though smearing the memory from his mind. Maybe later.
Something's on his nape.
Nimbus' colorless hair clings to the back of his neck, damp from the seaside air. Dusk leans, slow—a birthmark? Tattoo? It almost resembles a star. He wants to see it, but as he speeds up to keep pace, the steps shout.
Nimbus freezes.
And with a slow turn of his head, he looks into Dusk. His pale blue eyes searching for an answer. The torchlight trembles over their faces, as Nimbus' grip on the torch grows unsure.
"You're scared of me," Dusk observes.
Nimbus sharply inhales through his teeth, looking away. He scratches the back of his neck, pushing his hair back over the mark. As if, somehow, he knew what Dusk had seen. There was nowhere to go now—a long stairwell down one side, and an empty balcony up the other.
The silence between them thickens. Dusk steps closer until their reflections blur in the torchlight. His deep red eyes resemble a Krill during its hunt.
"What has Alto told you about me?" He asks.
Nimbus considers his words. Only after stepping back does he speak.
"Uh… well—I… I don't think I can talk to you alone."
Dusk tilts his head. "Oh. Does Alto distrust your judgement?"
He seals his lips, and glances at the wall. He's like a child, nervous when confronted. "That's… not it."
"He's a paranoid man and he's made you paranoid too."
Nimbus swallows. He hastily continues his descent as though nothing had happened, like it was no big deal; but the steps were such tattletales. Each creak betrays that fragile facade.
The stairs spiral down towards a large wooden door. Nimbus hurries, leaving Dusk behind. As their boots connect with solid ground, Dusk watches Nimbus' shoulders drop like weights. He fumbles with his key, still jittery, before unblocking the door. Dusk expects light, but Alto's quarters were dim, almost as suffocating as the stairwell. The curtains are drawn all but one, where Alto stands peering out with his hands behind his back. He wears a formal cape. A blade shines at his hip. He is clearly deep in thought, perhaps entangled in ideas that prick him as much they intrigue him.
As Nimbus shuts the door, Alto's eyes flew open. He faces them. Silver eyes, cold and dark with exhaustion, flicks between them slowly. His expression reveals nothing. At the sight of his master's drawn face, Nimbus felt his stomach tighten.
"The Village of Brume was attacked last night." Alto says, firm. "We've been ordered to investigate the remains."
"Remains?" asks Nimbus.
"Bodies."
The word "bodies" hit harder than it should have.
A flood of memory—salt and heat. The sands were still hot after sunset. He walked barefoot with Mother Krill, he held one of her claws so he couldn't wander. He remembers the sharp, nauseating scent of decay. Then, there it was: bones. The last scraps of obsidian skin. The remains of what was once another Krill. He held the skull, carefully. It was too smooth, and heavy. A spear was embedded in its socket, longer than he was tall. On the handle was a strip of cloth, waving in the desert wind. There was a star on it.
"—Brume is a short walk from here," Alto explains.
Dusk blinks, now back in Alto's quarters.
Alto crosses his arms and gives Dusk a sidelong glare. "Come if you want—or don't. I don't care."
"I'm not opposed to it." He replies.
"Of course not." Alto says, scoffing. "You like watching the carnage your pets can inflict."
"Not as much as I like watching you fall asleep on yourself."
Alto's eye twitches.