Starlit Ruins Read online

The Coalition did not support the legal bearings of marriage, since it required formal knowledge, which they were not willing to allow the public. Nevertheless, even the uneducated masses honored various marital systems. Often was included a dowry, though, unlike recent centuries, it need not always be offered from the woman's side of the bond. Makoto's offering of an exchange of gifts - rather than having a formal wedding, in the light of limited time, funds, and guests - suited Han just fine.

  Makoto decided that a pair of matching rings, which they purchased from Conroy, would have to compensate for a legally binding signature. The rings, both of ruby in the form of pre-Rifts doves, and silver, elaborately formed as vines to encircle the appropriate finger, were as much magical as they were beautiful.

  Conroy informed his unduly wary friend that it had been Laray's most recent venture as a Techno-Wizard, and promised that the rings would help them in times of greatest need. When asked, he explained that the rings would act as tracers, allowing the two to be instantly aware of the others' locale at any given time, as well as allowing greater range when using telepathic communication.

  Han shrugged in response, thinking little of the latter.

  The proceedings took place in Conroy's shop. He professed that he was a practitioner of the ways of the once well known Christian Clergyman. Hanlan seemed more concerned with Makoto's happiness than any other factor, and offered little in the way of verbal obstacle in her expressed interest, despite his lack thereof. Never quite the religious man, but damned if he was not certain there was a creator keeping him alive and sane through the turbulent reality that was Rifts Earth, and expressing his gratitude for his meeting and love for Makoto Kino in the manner of prayer, something he had never attempted before. As she had regarding many other factors of her life, Makoto attempted to settle her heart with the knowledge that things could definitely be worse. Through everything, she had fallen deeply in love, and was about to be married.

  Wonders never ceased. The wedding was not expensive, nor did it have any extended list of invited friends. On the other hand, Makoto had not expected to be married at all after becoming a Cyber-Knight.

  “Do you, Hanlan Ireson, take this woman, Makoto Kino, to be your wedded wife, through richer or poorer, sickness and health so long as you both shall live?”

  For the first time in his life, he actually began to consider his actions. Everything he knew spoke against this. It was as he had explained to her. He was sure they would come to hate each other after too long.

  What would Mom think? he thought as an uncertain moment drifted between the gathered three. What would Mom say? 'She's a nice girl Hanlan.' Is that it? What are we about? I don't know, but she loves me. Not because she's weak… but, ah heck, I guess I'll never know if I don't do it.

  Finally, the words came forth with the warranted hesitance. “Yes, I do.”

  “Do you, Makoto Kino, take this man, Hanlan Ireson, to be your wedded husband, through richer or poorer, sickness and health so long as you both shall live?”

  Makoto scarcely believed she was doing this. A hundred thoughts fluttered like a furied murder of crows through her mind.

  I wanted to share this day with my friends… Rei would tell me I'm going to screw this up, somehow. But… Am I making a mistake? Each time, a glance at Han negated that fear. Mama, forgive me, but I guess this isn't what either of us wanted.

  “Yes,” she affirmed.

  “And since there will be no contest by any third party… I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

  “I was waitin' for that bit,” Hanlan smirked as he took Makoto into his arms and laid his lips upon hers with all the passion befitting. What seemed an eternity passed before their lips parted. Again, Makoto seemed half consumed by her passions. Hanlan gazed steadily into her eyes, sure that he had made no mistake. Makoto turned quickly to Conroy.

  “We need,” her eyes barely met his. “Well… you know.”

  Conroy nodded soberly. “Certainly. I would not trust any inn, however. I have prepared a room for you upstairs. If you do not wish to pursue your friends until tomorrow, I quite understand.”

  A faint blush warmed her face. We might need tomorrow, too, Hanlan thought.

  “Han!” Makoto blurted, her blush only deepening.

  Han looked immediately confused. “Huh? Babe, I didn't say anything.”

  “Um…” she wondered how much warmer her face could be. You must have thought it, she replied experimentally, keeping her tongue still.

  Guess I musta. He took her hand with a smile, hefted her easily into his thick arms and carried her upstairs. A sinful grin evoked itself upon his face. This could be interesting!

  Makoto found herself both shocked and excited by the implications. As they exited stage left, Conroy turned to his shop, and decided it would be best to leave it closed for the next twenty-four hours. It was going to be a long night.

  @~%~~~

  There was no question about it, it had been a long night. On that note, it was not quite over yet. Like everything else in Makoto's world, her emotions were a stirred mess, rather like a four thousand dollar painting composed by a madman. Every thought consumed her, and pulled her back to a single pair of questions: Was their arrival on this future Earth an accident? What would the senshi do if they should act as a team once again?

  The first of the two was the most difficult to answer, for she had so little knowledge to fit into it's puzzle. Conroy, and this “Shi-Con Corporation” presented a large chance of discovering the executioner of the Bishojo Sailor Senshi. Despite the unadulterated opportunity, trust was a large - uncertain - commodity. Conroy could be lying through his not-so pearly whites. While it was unlikely, it was indeed possible, especially when considering the resources and demands of such a considerable company.

  Though every feeling she could glean from him indicated honesty, and a plainness of attitude. Makoto felt unable to face the sliver of a chance that the senshi would ever become a team again. Pitched with other darker, unsettled emotions, tears seem in ready supply. As she mingled with the midnight call of the calm outside, warding those forlorn wellings was neither something she was able to do, nor cared to. She had shed tears in Hanlan's presence before; his harsh nature did not seem to halt that. After having had made love to him again, and not in a premarital fashion, she felt that it was difficult to share such feelings again. Why? He was supposed to be happy, wasn't he? Fielding her sadness might only draw him down as well. She did not want to do that.

  The air was cool on the naked skin of her arms and legs. It was mid-spring, so the night was cool enough for a midnight stroll, and ideal for this chance for contemplation of her life. The shorts and tunic of tan cotton felt comfortable, and eased her mind to some small degree. A deep breath revealed a distinct sweetness she had not noted earlier. She could only relate the fragrance to the forest around them. In her day, in the point of history which contained her birth, such an odor was missed. It was as calming to her as the clothes she wore.

  Despite her efforts, in action and garment, to drop the weights set upon her shoulders, she still felt as though she bore their impressive girth. Reflection brought the nagging feeling that her act of marriage had been one of desperation and survival, as much as one of love. She raised her hand and regarded the ring she continued to wear. The crimson dove had a radiance, a presence, and she felt it against her mind. After a moment of study, and unconscious probing, she found the presence was Hanlan's elemental mind.

  Makoto smiled selflessly; he had expended much effort and energy trying to indicate the honesty of his feelings for her through his passions. While he excelled in that area, as he had proven, his inability to express himself through words bothered her. She felt an undeniable need to simply talk to him. As much as the idea came with ill ease, she hardly wanted to conceal her misconstrued feelings and compunctions from him.

  As Hanlan had said, was it not that kind of thing which tore young lovers apart? Not taking time to le
arn about each other, stumbling headlong into a relationship in which communication was an unimportant factor? But they weren't young, she certainly no longer a teenager, just lost, and uncertain. Funny he should know so much about relationships.

  “Excuse me, Ma'am,” quoth a year-grated baritone of mislaid sounding.

  Reflexively, she snapped around to face the intrusion. A male figure of aged appearance sheltered in a robe reaching to ground length stood before her.

  “Yes, what do you want?” Her words were ill considered, and held some amount of venom within them; she had no wish to be disturbed.

  “I'm sorry to bother you, my dear, honestly. I know something of your troubles; I have only recently shed the skin of a long ailed marriage.” Instantly his words inspired mistrust. With a fragment of her mind, she reached forth to verify him, and beseech any lie which might motivate his tongue. Upon finding none, she waited, hands set upon hips, for him to speak his purpose. “I seek only to quell what viral concerns taint your thoughts. Fear me not, I mean you no harm.”

  She removed her hands from her hips, and crossed them - along with her arms - over her breasts. “Who are you? Should it concern you?”

  “It does not, to be frank. Nothing does anymore. My single motivation here is to share with you a few words that may have saved me many pains now well faded.”

  “Are you a blind man? A beggar? If you want a spare coin, I have a few.” Her eyes narrowed, gazing upon the somewhat distorted figure.

  “Hear me well, child. The mind will conceive lies which the heart will follow, for the truth can scar.”

  Child? Her mind whirled. Anger flowed easily to the surface. The ring of steel uttered gently as three blades slipped easily forth from the back of her hand. “What do you want, old man?! Talk straight or just leave me the hell alone!”

  “Aye. I will seek to enlighten you no further.”

  In a blur of emotional agony, she grasped the man by the collar of his robe and dragged him from his feet. “Who are you! What do you want?!” she demanded in harsh, violence overtoned words.

  “People are ignorant and childish Makoto; they will believe what is heard because it is gentler than the truth!”

  With that, the robe sagged, and fell empty in her grip. With a snarl on her lip, she cast aside the robe and dropped to her knees, eyes closed, hot tears streaming. In an instant, the stranger had made her face everything. The truth. They could never be together again! The senshi had been scattered to the four winds, and none save a Goddess could recover the brilliant shards. Hanlan was all she had! The only one she had. What was hope? A starving babe, scrying with it's failing voice for love, for life, for comfort…

  Warmth against Makoto's flesh caused her to forget her pain, and recall the fury which had surfaced so sharply. As she rose, the cool smell and maroon tinted evening had been replaced by a bedroom catering an expensive layout and contents. Her tears felt vaguely warmed as she wiped them away with the back of her hand. The bed, chair, and table all offered a late eighteenth century hand constructed appearance. The remainder of the room's pieces, curtains, carpets, a shag rug, and Victorian paintings, complimented the decor with accent colours of scarlet, and a soft sapphire. The stiff brush of stale air across her neck caused her to turn, eyes asking for an opponent.

  “Welcome, makoto kino. You like? Not that it matters, really…”

  Before she could think to follow the source of the voice, a biting frigidness wrapped itself about her neck.

  “Ki-ha!” Makoto cried with a blurred backhand strike of fist and fury.

  The woman chuckled. A charcoal-skinned, silver haired woman of some five feet in height adorned in a knee-length dress of cool grey took Makoto's hand and drew her forward. The shock of her cool kiss was shortly enveloped by Makoto's seething rage at the perverted advance. Makoto grabbed the woman by the great lengths of thin hair and pulled with such force as to snap her head free from the shoulders.

  “How dare you!” she growled venomously.

  The woman laughed. “You're responding very well to this, my sweet.”

  Aghast, and horrified, she tore the creature lose and threw her to the ground. The Darakan female responded by replying an expression of wanton lust.

  “Ah! The passionate warrior… a reliable source of…” she paused long enough to select the appropriate word. “Entertainment. Perfect.”

  Makoto said nothing, offering only an offensive stance for want of combat. The woman slowly rose to her feet.

  “I have little time at the moment to play with you, however, so here it is: You are now my slave. My name is unimportant. You may call me Mistress, Lady, or Love. Enjoy the agency I allow you in this choice, for it is all you will ever be granted again.” She paused, the reason for which Makoto was uncertain, but she obeyed the instinct belaying retaliatory action - for the moment. With a dead smile, the emotionally severed creature spoke, issuing decrees it seemed she was certain would be followed.

  “My expectation is that you fight - for me - as a gladiator. That is, of course, when I'm not 'working' with you.” A sly, dark and slightly sundry expression lighted upon her face. “I'll leave you now to adjust to this. I'd highly recommend that you forget any former life or love you might have acquired. I expect now that you only respond to me, and no other.”

  A seed of hatred was planted within Makoto's very soul that moment, to wind - eventually - itself to her heart. The woman approached her, expecting her to step aside. When Makoto failed to concede, she noted: “Of course, you're not trained yet. Fair enough. Move.”

  “The hell I will you coal-skinned bitch,” were Makoto's well fueled words. “Release me. You don't know who you're trifling with.”

  “Oh don't I?” A strictly bemused expression darkened her face. “I know who you were. The unbridled, unfettered - until now - Sailor Senshi; Jupiter, and the Cyber-Knight; Sliver, defender of the good, the righteous, and the weak. Now, merely makoto, my pleasure slave and gladiator.”

  “Shi-Con will look for me! Hanlan will look for me! You can't hide me from them!” Makoto replied desperately.

  “Of course not. You vastly overestimate your importance and situation. You act as if you have command of your situation. A quaint assumption, my sweet warrior,” qouth she, with the regard one offers a newborn babe. “Push. fight me. I invite you to do so.”

  With a grim grin, Makoto drew her right fist back in a dramatic gesture, eyes jammed shut, and brought that projectile forth with strength enough to crush an ordinary human, and cried out in agony as it cracked - slightly - the suddenly stone structure of Marlanda's head. Grasping her broken and bloodied hand, three blades twisted at it's end, she crouched forward and bit her lip with distracting force.

  “You see? Be warned, you will truly regret your next attempt to retaliate.” She stomped, stone-footed steps, towards the door, and said before exiting:

  “As for the pain, you will learn to enjoy that soon enough.”

  @~%~~~

  In spite of the pain, Makoto found herself spending the time given her thinking. Her hand was only broken in five for so places, she felt vaguely. Gazing at her numbing hand, and the mangled slivers of polished steel alloy, she cursed harshly at her own stupidity.

  If it hadn't been a mutation, she would have had a force field or something else, Makoto winced sharply, wondering if Marlanda would send someone to repair the damage she had done to herself. It was her swift, unthinking anger that had gotten her into trouble, and she regretted it. Not that she had acted, rather that her blow had failed to land. Yet, if consideration could have saved her this agony… What felt like hours passed. Finally, she gave in to curiosity and gauged the room with her eyes, pacing slowly about like a woman stoned.

  Stoned? Stoned on pain, perhaps. Is that possible? To be in so much pain that it's like a drug trip? This could just be the start. Besides, I've been hurt worse. Makoto experimentally flexed her right wrist, flinching as pain stabbed through her numb hand, arm and into her sho
ulder. But not much worse.

  A sordid fascination eased into her mind as she watched the blood pour slowly through the ports through which the vibro-claws extended. She muttered a curse, reaching for the nearest cloth to stifle the crimson substance.

  “Makoto?” The voice was distinctly male; deep, with a soft, nearly undefinable attractive quality to it. Her gaze rose, and fell upon a figure her mind stumbled to perceive. She gasped, reality faltered and ceased to matter.

  “W-who… Um… what… Uh…” each word was a mountain, and ascending them was a course of action which was of little consequence. He was impossibly attractive, flawless in every visible manner. The fact that Makoto did not really prefer redheads hardly seemed to matter anymore. His body was that of an athlete; firm, well muscled without the failings of extensive girth.

  “Oh my…” Makoto found herself feeling light headed, and sat down upon the edge of the bed.

  “Oh…” Upon his face was a look of welcome concern. Rather, Makoto welcomed it. “Are you alright? I'm just here to make sure… if you are I'll go.”

  Makoto shook her head curtly. “No, don't go…” her voice fell to a whisper. “Don't ever leave…”

  He said nothing as he stepped towards her with the soft padding of a cat. The athlete facade waned, and in its place fell the hardened edge of a war worn man, a soldier, from the frequency of scars upon his body.

  “Show me your arm? The Mistress told me that you struck her.” As he unravelled the bed covering, Makoto's heart thudded violently in her chest. An inwardly drawn breath drew a clean, pleasant smell from him.

  “This is bad. I'm going to have to remove these,” he stated softly. She just nodded, entranced by his presence. How was a question which failed to occur to her.

  “Who are you?” she asked gently, noting only faintly a piercing spike of pain as he tested the strength and resilience of the claws.

  He grimaced.

  “This is going to hurt. I'm Chalin.”

  “Hurt?” she blinked slowly, awareness flickering as a wind-whipped candle. Before she could say another word, a shrill yelp tore through her throat as the first of the three blades came free. She flinched back, pulling away from him as the fire came alive in her arm.

  “I'm sorry… You're bleeding a great deal. If I don't pull the other two, it will get infected for certain. Do not worry. I have training in such things.”

  Hesitance seemed to hold him, and a squeamishness which drew Makoto somewhat back into focus. She noted suddenly that Chalin bore a recently beaten look, which tarnished the brilliant shine of his beauty, though only by a small degree. Another nagging point hit her: For someone who looked like he was familiar with violence, he certainly appeared to be jumpy enough!

  “Chalin? Are you alright? Um…” her eyes dropped to his neck. He was adorned in a collar much like her own. It became transparent. Lacking eagerness for self apparent reasons, she offered her wounded arm to him again. He yanked roughly at the second claw, which, with the scry grinding of metal, came wrenchingly free. Another cry joined the first.

  “Hold still, I don't want this to hurt any more than necessary. Mercy knows you'll experience enough of it later…”

  She squinted at the barely audible statement. “What?”

  “Just hold still.” He set the pliers carefully as closely to the back of her hand as possible, and with the visible flexing of firm arm and chest muscles, the third drew additional bloody blade and a whimper from Makoto. She leaned forward, tears of agony welling.

  “I'm so sorry! I… I didn't mean to hurt you… Please forgive me…! It was that, or the Mistress had commanded me to amputate it!”

  By the Goddess! Makoto thought raggedly, feeling weak, as though she had been summarily flattened by a Great Horned Dragon.

  “It's th-uh-the blood luh-l-luh-loss… uhm… L-uh-ie down… um… Makoto.” His hands trembled, reaching for her, and halted. Supplying comfort was something he seemed unable to do. He retracted the unseen offer. “It's… it's over now, I just need… no, it's… I will dress your hand. This putty will heal it. Please hold still. Please.”

  She looked up at him, as she lay back, waned curiousness in her eyes. He carefully shifted aside the crimsoned blankets, urging her to relax.

  “Chalin, why are you scared? I won't hurt you!” she breathed.

  It was clear that he expected her to. “I… Uh…”

  He swivelled away on a single foot, picked up a hand cast, a somewhat extensive collection of bandages, and some rubbing alcohol. Makoto let the subject drop. The primary image of him drifted romantically in her mind. She felt, and saw with such definition his purity, and his beauty. A furious blush rose to her cheeks as she recalled Hanlan, who seemed such a contrast, yet so similar in comparison. His soul was as pure as that of her husband, yet Chalin was an obviously cultured, properly educated man.

  As he cured and bandaged her hand, she felt the sensual nature of his touch. Her eyes followed his long fingered, silk skinned hands, how they traced carefully the outlines of her fingers, straightening them to fit into the cast, setting the bones so as to heal properly. Finally, after an eternity of study, of relishing his touch, wondering how it would feel to have him touch her elsewhere… another flash of warmth added a tint of crimson to her cheeks.

  “You're not the first to wonder,” he stated gently, calmly, his stuttered tongue replaced by the refined calm and ease that permeated his touch. A trained mode, she realized with a dull wash of horror.

  “Uh…” Makoto gasped. Her left hand found her mouth and covered it.

  “It's alright Makoto, if you want to…”

  Makoto was shocked. “No, I… um…” I can't say yes, even though I want to… It's not right! I don't love him!

  “I'm… I'm married.”

  He smiled. It was a beautiful smile. “That's wonderful.”

  His words drew the tension from her. He meant it. Swallowing, she thought to ask, “Chalin… why offer to have sex with me?”

  “It would please the Mistress.”

  “No, no, no no no,” she chanted self determinedly. “Never. I will never bow to her! I would rather die!”

  Chalin spoke, his response so clear it was as through this was a conversation he had carried out before. “She won't let you. She is a very possessive woman. She is also very meticulous in keeping her new slaves.”

  “I don't care! I'll fight her with every last bit of strength! That whore'll never touch me… I won't let her.” Chalin had no reply. “I've fought and destroyed tougher than her,” Makoto finished, realizing Chalin's state of withdrawal. “Is that it? Is that the only reason? You just offered to have sex with me to please her?”

  He was silent. “Have you ever actually loved anyone?” Makoto realized the error of the question a moment too late. By then the time had passed to correct it.

  “No.”

  She succumbed to the abundant tranquillity in sound. Awkwardness was shared as the intimate distance between them. She said uselessly, “I'm sorry.”

  He stepped back from her. “No… I am. If there was any reason to make love to you, it would be out of love… not just for the Mistress. She will not be pleased, but I will accept the consequences on your behalf.” In his hand trembled the medical equipment, and the shattered strength of a once impressive seeming fist. Makoto's mouth opened, but not a word introduced itself. What in mercy's name could she say? 'I'm sorry for having morals'? Yet, as she gazed at him, she could see plainly enough that beyond his pain, and submission, he understood. There was no anger within him.

  It was an eerie thing, to glance into his tormented soul.

  “I must leave. The Mistress will wonder if I linger too long.” Then he was gone, the white door having shut automatically behind him.

  “…the Mistress…” Makoto muttered, lost in thought, before lying back upon the lightly blood stained bed and drifting into a listless slumber.

  Chapter 8

  Hatred in Spades

&n
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