From Far Away and Beloved

Kay only realizes her mistake when the knife is pressed against her throat (poverty, fear, mainland focus = tyrant. It was so clear. Her skills were slipping). Years on the Compound meant she wasn't as sharp as she used to be.

"Move an inch, woman, and I will slit yr throat."

She had a brief flash of killing the soldier standing behind her, just grabbing him by the wrist, throwing the knife, and snapping his neck. It would be so easy, so quick, so fun. But then she would have to kill the whole group of them, and then Aethon, who hated killing, and would probably try to stop her. Men were so weak about that kind of thing. So she merely opens her eyes and looks at the soldier.
He is tall and ginger, and his face is contorted in a sneer. She wants to wipe that smile off of his face, but lets him drag her to her feet.

"No one's supposed to be out at this time of morning," the soldier states.

"Yes, we look exactly like the type of people that would know that."

The soldier back hands her, and it is all she can do to keep her mood in check.

"Well isn't that a pretty little trinket," the soldier comments, wrapping his free hand around the pendant resting on her collarbone. Kay devolves the first digit of his index finger, and smirks as he starts to scream.

Aethon looks at her, horrified. She can see the judgement on his face, but brushes it off. The soldier shouldn't have touched her if he couldn't face the consequences.

The two of them have heavy sacks thrown over their heads, and are thrown onto a cart, where there hands are tied. Kay doesn't put up a fight, but can still hear the screams of the soldier.

It is almost evening when the hoods are taken off, and Kay judges that it has been seven or so hours.

Before her is a sprawling city that goes on for miles. While not as advanced as she remembered New York to be, the metropolitan center leaves little to be desired. The buildings appear as though they were carved out of the limestone cliffs, and light up like a Christmas tree. In fact, the lights are almost blinding, like -

"Aethon," she whispers. "That's electricity."

"That's impossible."

One of the soldiers hits Aethon with a book, bound with some sort of cardboard. "Shut up."

The two are slowly taken through the streets, and Kay can see that she is right. Through the arches and columns of classic Greek architecture, there are lamp posts and hanging fairy lights, glowing bright yellow.

The cart meanders through the large city, finally coming to a stop in front of an opulent, white building. It is huge, and reminds Kay of a church, or a palace. She can tell instantly that this is where the tyrant lives. Not only is it decorated in gold and black paint, it has the most amount of security she's ever seen, complete with guard dogs. An escape could be difficult. Not impossible, just difficult.

A woman, clad in all red, runs beside the cart, pleading for food and money. Kay can only make out a few words, "children", "please", and "help". The soldiers push her away, spitting obscenities as they pass.

The hoods are put back on again, and Kay and Aethon are led into what she imagines to be the tyrant's personal chamber. She can see more lights and more security through the hood, and can smell the perfume that signifies concubines.

"You broke curfew," the tyrant says as the hoods are yanked off.

He is young-looking and blonde, with bright brown eyes that reek of cruelty. She can practically hear the souls ended at his hands screaming from the confines of time. They swirl around him, as gray ghouls, feeding off of his smug grin. Kay has the desire to vomit.

"Perhaps yr curfew is too strict," Kay spits at the tyrant.

He merely laughs, eating a green grape from a bunch. He is scarcely clothed, which she figures must be for intimidation. Who could argue with a tyrant that cared so little about his people that he didn't even clothe himself in front of them?

"Hang on," he says, pushing the grapes away. "You forgot to bow."

"I'm past the age men want me on my knees."

He laughs, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He slaps Kay across the face, and his ring catches piece of skin, causing blood.

"I think you'd look lovely down there."

His touch is brief, just a lingering stroke along the path of blood, but Kay hears the screams again, louder. There is so much time in him, centuries at least, dripping off of him, the scent hanging heavy in the room. He is old, older than her, older than this island. The age of him drips off of him like honey, and she sees a roadmap of time spread out before her, and she cannot breathe for thick it is. He is not of this world. He is not of this dimension.

"Take the man out," he says. "He can hang at sunrise. This one, I want to keep."

The soldiers salute, and lead Aethon out. He tries to catch Kay's attention, but she is too distracted. The rope devolves on her hands, falling into sand that sinks to the black floor. The sound of it falling catches the attention of the tyrant, who merely looks at the pile.

"I used to know someone who could do that same trick," he says.

"So did I," she replies.

He motions to make the concubines and the guards and the tens of people that he surrounds his loneliness with, and they disperse, leaving the two of them alone.

"Are you here to kill me?" he asks.

He doesn't remember. She knows that humans are fragile things, and had hoped to make it on time (oh, the situation is so ironic. She IS time, and its pawn when she needs it most).

"No, I'm here to take you home."

He chuckles, and sits, slouching on a gold and black wooden throne. It is ostentatious, decorated with what she can only imagine is the story of his own, bloody revolution carved in the painted wood.

"And who are you to do that?" he asks.

"Your cousin."

"All of my family is dead."

"Not dead, boy. Just slow."

He refuses to look at her, instead picking at the worn wood of his throne.

"Been a long time."