Disclaimer in first part.
Leave: Part Two
by Jaya Mitai
Daphne was taken from her room in holding a few hundred painful feet to the greenhouses, and she was nearly bowled over by how much stronger the voices of her daughters really were.
The greenhouse was very nice, as they'd described it, and her eyes blurred with tears as she looked on the neat rows, the well-tended pots, the obvious care that had been taken to build this structure specifically to nurture them for execution.
#Mother!#
#Mom!#
#You're here, you're here!#
#The bad man -#
#Are you well, Mother?#
#I'm scared!#
#You've been hurt!#
#I am too!#
#-came and took Shataral away -#
#What's going to happen to us?#
#Why are you crying?#
#Are you-#
#I'm scared -#
#The bad men -#
She couldn't shut them out, she didn't have the strength or the desire. She let the wave of their thoughts wash over her, their treespeak like a refreshing breeze on a calm hilltop. The babble softened as soon as she went to the first of them, a young sapling by the name of Toolo.
#Greetings, daughter,# she sunbeamed to the young one, her dirt-covered fingers brushing the leaves that rubbed against her fingertips in response.
#Mother!#
#How are you, little one?# A tear dripped from her nose to the soil, and she smiled brokenly at the knowledge that Toolo wasn't going to live long enough to absorb it. This was hidden; she never thought despairing things around them. Even those that had been taken to her for slaughter, she had held them in her mind and told them the truth about what was happening, but comforted them, telling them tales of what was coming after even as they died, soothing their fears about death as best she could, soothing their pain as best she could.
It helped her own piece of mind to have them dropped at her roots, churned there, for it was the Clan custom for those deceased to donate of their bodies so that others might live. In that way, they all carried a piece of their entire Clan with them, and their bodies – and souls – had been returned to the Mother from which they'd sprouted.
The refusal to absorb their bodies into her own weighed heavily on her heart. She couldn't help feeling guilt for pushing them away even in death while she tried to get across the idea to Dayspring that her daughters were _not _ just clones, just anything, to be used however they were most useful. She loved her daughters desperately, yet had she shown that love properly he would have misconstrued it. She wasn't sure, after this month, that he was even worth the disservice she'd done her daughters.
#I am well, Mother. Are you well?#
#I am now.#
Down the rows, each and every one she touched, made that contact, talked with. She had done so to each one in treespeak in the countless days, but the touch of their mother was very important at this stage. Their Clan often forgave a man or woman months from duties to spend time with their saplings, to teach them and care for them until they were old enough and sturdy enough to survive without the help, survive and grow and eventually break from treeform to take their first steps as a human.
She had been born human, though, not a sapling. It had been the opposite for her, she had been cared for as an infant, until she had felt the urge to bury her toes deep into the soft loam of the earth and take root. Neither was considered the preferred method, and those naturally human and those naturally tree were considered equals rather than two different species, like humans and mutants.
Not all of her saplings could be so comforted as Toolo. The older ones, that had felt their sisters die, they knew more than their young minds needed to, she wept for their lack of innocence more than their fears.
#You were brought here to die, weren't you.#
A difficult question. #I don't know, little Mallie. Perhaps. I was told I was brought here because your father's brother wanted to honor me by letting me see you.#
The sapling emitted a soft, keening wail. #He lies, Mother. He is not like our father.#
#No, my daughter. He is nothing like your father.# She paused to wipe a tear, then took a deep, quick breath. #But does it matter? I'm here now, I finally get to see what beautiful leaves you've sprouted!# Her warm excitement distracted the tiny plant, who beamed back, and her smile continued even as her strength faded, not half-way around the greenhouse.
It was only an hour more before she simply couldn't stand. She tried to force her way up, tried to see through her tears; it was ridiculous, considering she was dehydrated, that she could weep so much. But burnt skin stretched so painfully. When she finally fell, leaning heavily on the tabletop for support, she actually heard the sickeningly wet sound of the burnt skin stretching like elastic and pulling away from her body to hang in a sticky flake from her side.
The pain of it hit only seconds later, and her cry undid all the good she had done that day.
#Mother!#
#Mom!#
#Mommy! You're hurt!#
#What happened?#
#Answer me, please!#
#Get up! They'll find you there!#
#I'm scared, Mommy!#
#Mother!#
#Please, don't die?#
#She's not going to die!#
#How do you know? She's hurt, she isn't taking root -#
#Why won't you answer me!?#
Daphne swallowed against a dry heave, forehead pressing into the synth counters so hard she could feel the imprint. She couldn't treespeak now, not without sharing the pain she felt, and her silence was as frightening as the truth to her daughters. So many she hadn't touched, so many left, she couldn't collapse now, not now . . .
Daphne clung to the table, her arms trembling with the exertion it took. Oh, of all the times she wanted his strength . . .
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the sobs to disappear. She had begged him to do it, she had no one to blame but herself.
#No! Daphne, by the Bright Lady I swear to you that I will not leave you!#
How she had loved him then, how he had glowed like the sun through their link, feeding the leaves of her mind with love and strength.
#I'll get you out of there, love. I swear it.#
#Stryfe . . .# She had stroked him, a gentle touch, the feeling of her fingertips on his face. #You are not a weretree. I can feel them overwhelming you. How can you think?# The terrified shrieks of her daughters were almost overwhelming _her _, and she was equipped to sort them out. As a telepath rather than a weretree, all Stryfe heard were hundreds of voices over their psilink, no way to fight through the babble to isolate even one voice.
#Do you think I would be less overwhelmed with my own imagination?# he'd snarled back. #Daphne, I will not shut them out! I can't . . . I can't!#
#You must, love. You cannot live this way -#
#I cannot live anyway!# It had been almost loud enough to hurt. #I can't find a way in . . . I've looked and looked over the prints, but there's no way to get the healer to you before the entrance force would be destroyed -#
#You cannot think clearly, my love.# So soft. She'd tried to dim her daughter's voices as best she could, but she knew he was being driven mad with the knowledge of what was going on, the psilink that he kept pouring support down, no matter his own exhaustion.
#I won't seal you off, Daphne!# There was so much raw pain there, so much anger. #It's . . . it's all I can do . . .#
#If you don't, I will.# She couldn't do it as well, she knew that. If he insisted, she wasn't sure she could keep him from her thoughts. She was no telepath, and he was so powerful. But how much did that power matter when he couldn't focus? Couldn't sleep? She was a tree, she didn't need it like he did.
#You can't.# Quietly. Uncertain.
#Yes, I can. And I will. Stryfe, you must promise me, promise me that no matter what happens to me, that you will take care of each and every remaining one of them.#
#I swear it.# Even softer, but more fervent.
#You can't do that if you can't find a way in. And I know that you can, you could if only you could focus. Stryfe, you don't have a choice. I'm begging you. Please. For our daughters.#
The acceptance of that was a terrible wail, one of frustration and pain and love, and then she'd felt his mind envelope hers. She'd felt the equivalent of a kiss, a very hard one, a tight embrace. She felt him taking away all the discomforts he could, giving her all the strength he could, before he'd closed the link. She'd felt his form, his body shaking with the sobs, as the link had narrowed down to the tiniest of pinholes. She'd heard the telepathic equivalent of mortar spread over it, to dull it to almost nothing.
She needed his strength now. Maybe he'd know that all along.
Despite her attempts, the remembrance of the strength only made her exhaustion more overwhelming, and she slipped from the kneeling position to the floor, laying beneath the tables and staring with suddenly dry, sticky eyes at the far wall.
#I'm all right, my daughters. Human forms need rest, unlike tree forms. I will be fine when I have rested.#
The dubious comfort confused them, and they started discussing it amongst themselves as she faded away from them, to let the pain fade, to rest. Just a few minutes to rest, just a few minutes to gather her strength –
* * * * * * *
The rightful Askani'son had watched her carefully, marveling at her strength as she had patiently made the rounds he'd imagined she'd done mentally since he had begun the project. The idea of a weretree had created in him a desire to find the most clever ways possible of making her life a misery, as it was rather difficult to torture a tree.
But not so difficult, not if the tears on her face were any indication of how she was feeling.
He was avoiding telepathic contact with her, afraid it would tip off his clone. Stryfe had sealed the link well, so long as her death was long and gradual he wouldn't even notice her fading until just hours before she was gone, if even. Perhaps, if they timed it just right, he would even be asleep, exhausted from his plans, and not wake until the link was gone . . .
But that took most of the fun of tormenting her away, considering Stryfe hadn't been around to observe the better half of it on a first hand basis. Everything that happened to her was for Stryfe to cherish, in memory, until his own death.
It would take him longer to die. Bright Lady willing, he would live to see every single thing taken from him before his miserable life abandoned him.
His mind wandered back to the first month under Apocalypse. How many days had he spent in the infirmary? How many hours of agony, hours of torture both with the T-O and physical poundings, had it taken before he'd finally knelt to Apocalypse? How many beatings had it taken a five year old to realize no matter how stubborn he was, Apocalypse was bigger, stronger, faster? How many years had he struggled to hide his true feelings, to be the son that had somehow stolen his parents and left him to rot in the palace?
How many hours had he spent crying for them? How many days had he been unable to speak for screaming their names in his sleep? How many brain cells had he killed searching telepathically for any trace, any trace at all of Redd? How many nights of agony had he spent, alone, in a cold bed surrounded by the cold stone of a place he hated more than anything?
He couldn't count the scars, the years, the pain. There was no way to measure what a five year old goes through as he grows, as he gets stronger, as he learns the exact opposite of what his parents taught him. No way to measure the agony of seeing them again, lying at the raging Apocalypse's feet, waiting for the death blow, only to have it come in another fashion, in their abandonment.
With the other at their side.
They hadn't even tried to find him, they'd been sated with their replacement, as Apocalypse had had to be sated with his. At least, he could admit, Stryfe was actually putting the effort into getting Daphne back.
But he would fail. From now on, the one that took his life would have it taken in kind.
When she collapsed, he waited still. Waited until she had almost succumbed to the comforts of sleep, waited until her mind had drifted just past the pain. He held up a hand for silence as Brynt entered the observation area, waited another breath. Then wordlessly he entered the greenhouses.
She would not sleep until she was dead. There were so many more memories to make before Stryfe realized he had lost.
* * * * * * *
Daphne felt him coming before she heard him, forced her brain awake, painfully pushed away the inviting void of sleep. Oh, for just an hour of sleep. Just ten minutes . . .
#Mother! You must get up!#
#He's coming!#
#Mommy! Mommy, you must go!#
#Mom, run!#
Heavy, heavy eyelids refused to budge, but her mind answered them warmly. #It is all right, my daughters. He will not kill me.# She knew with a certainty now that he would let her die, but he would not hasten it. Not that he needed to, even she knew she would die from her wounds.
"Daphne, you only had to ask and a bed would have been prepared for you."
Gentle hands, the hands that had touched her bark even as the mind had found ways to harm her. Hard hands, hands that had crushed her wrists, pinned her to the wall while he decided exactly what he was going to do with her. Warm hands, warmed with his will, but not with his blood.
Metal hands, to go with the metal soul. Unbending, unchanging, nearly impossible to mold. But with the right heat, it could be encouraged into anything, a weapon or a tool or a piece of art . . . he had a chance. He had met his parents, he was still capable of being a brother to his brother, a leader to his Clansmen.
But not at the price he asked. Why did he insist on such a price?
She was cradled against his chest like a little girl to her father. Her own father had been far taller, and more slender, and his gentleness didn't emit such a controlled malice. . .
He was doing it on purpose, she realized. He was purposefully sending out that emotion, knowing that every single one of her daughters would have the same empathic tendencies that she did. She heard their worried, frighten whispers that she simply couldn't reassure, not when he was doing his best to project such viciousness in such simple movements.
Her eyes fell open of their own accord, and she found that he was carefully and slowly carrying her back to her original holding cell. They were walking towards another soldier, one with a piece of equipment . . she couldn't get her grainy eyes to focus on it.
The smell of fuel made her eyes relatively useless.
"No!" It was almost too hoarse to even understand, but somehow Dayspring did, she felt his steps slow, then finally stop, and she was shifted so that her knees were draped over one arm, and her head lolled in the crook of the other. So he could see her face, so she could see his.
"No? You would prefer to sleep on the floor?"
He looked so calm, almost like his brother. But not quiet. The T-O incursion had spread across half his face, giving him an almost mask from his neck to his chin, and a bit of one around his eye. One ear shone through his close-cropped, silvering hair. His chest, his upper arms and body had been surrendered to it for strength, and one leg. The other he kept living tissue, the rumors had it, so that there was a large vein accessible for medical treatment, but that was it.
Rumors also said he had conquered it, that it put him on the same playing field telekinetically with his brother. They hadn't clashed on the battlefield since her capture, so no one knew. Given his resistance of her attack, she feared it was true.
"You . . ."
His smile was so slight, it might have not been there at all. "I what?" He glanced up, then nodded to someone, and the smell of the fuel grew stronger as the soldier passed them.
He had ordered them all burned.
"No!" She summoned enough strength to struggle out of Dayspring's arms, so that he had to physically restrain her once more, hugged to him with her arms to her sides. Furiously, she strove to access her powers, but the block was complete and flawless. She did the next best thing.
She tried to take root.
Somehow, she'd failed to notice that the floor was solid metal. Her toes spread into roots, seeking any weakness in the surface before realizing the cold, metal surface was simply too hard to break through, and she could break through concrete-hard ground. A moan escaped her as her roots retreated back into toes, some broken, and his arms were still around her, a mockery of an embrace.
"Come now, Daphne. If you wish to take root again, I would be more than happy to take you back to your plot of soil . . . oh, but that inhibiting field is there."
She was glued to his chest, her head pressed against his shoulder, her eyes forced to watch the soldier with the incinerating equipment finish the walk to the greenhouse and enter it. She'd almost turned him. A good-hearted man, a lieutenant in the Canaanite army, by the name of Brynt. His brother had been to see her once, and Daran had reminded her so much of Hope that she had nearly begun to banter with him before she realized he was not a telepath.
But she'd been fighting the strong loyalty he had to his Clan, to his city, and a few weeks of weak empathy, unaided by touch, had only served to make him miserable.
"Please." Surely what he wanted to hear was that she had broken. All he wanted was to punish Stryfe, and what better way than . . .
Than to have her beg for their lives, and then turn her down. Even now his embrace was mocking, forcing her to stare in the direction of her daughters, forcing her to measure the space and realize she could not cover even those twenty yards. There was no comfort in his cold embrace, no comfort in his cold voice.
"Please what?"
She subsided, and he waited patiently. She closed her eyes, leaning on him as she had nowhere else to lean, and concentrated on her daughters.
#I love you all. Do not forget the good times we had.# She reminded them of sunshine, introduced them to her own feelings of being rained upon, which they'd never experienced. It distracted them a bit from the man that had entered the greenhouse, distracted them from the stinging vapors of fuel against their open stomata.
It didn't keep them distracted too long, however, as their sisters began to shriek in pain as their leaves were burned, their very lifeblood boiling in their stems before there was too little left for her to sense, and they were gone.
She flinched hard into Dayspring, not wanting to give him the satisfaction but having nowhere else to go. The proximity was such, and she stayed with her daughters to the end, holding them with her mind, so that when each one died it felt like a theft and then a great ache of loss, another psilink destroyed, another part cut from her.
Those nearest the plants dying were crying out in fright, and she tried to soothe them, mourning each and every one. #Your great grandmother began this Clan, and she will welcome you with open branches. There's a place with sunshine and rain and perfect breezes, where little children will play in your branches and no storms will threaten you . . .# Her mental voice never broke, but her physical body shuddered against Dayspring, her face was buried in his shoulder.
She didn't spare the energy to shield him from her pain, and she was quite sure the actual hug, the gentle stroking of her back that was actually comforting, all these things were completely unconscious on his part. But from his mind, she felt detachment.
She didn't care. She ignored him utterly, and steadied her mind as she told her dying daughters of what awaited them beyond the pain of the fire.
* * * * * * *
Dayspring caught himself stroking her back as he supported her, letting her stare helplessly into the greenhouse and the flashes of fire there. He'd specifically ordered Brynt to only kill half of them, too many and Stryfe would surely sense her distress.
Obviously, this was a lesson to him to shield better when being in contact with said distressed empath.
He fully intended to let her stay and watch the entire thing, but after only a minute, maybe less, he heard the greenhouse doors open, and footsteps.
#I didn't know you had chronovariant tendencies, Brynt. Tell me, how did you warp time?#
The disgust was all there, plainly, in his mind. However, it was disgust with himself. At the idea of slaughtering children. Ah. So she had gotten to him. Very clever, Daphne. Very resourceful.
#The flames are melting the synth counters before the plants are going up,# he replied. It was truth, the pots were melting before the flames dried out the plants long enough to really burn them.
Still, the point had been made. "Lord General?"
"Yes, Lieutenant?"
"I realize we no longer have the resources to care for your greenhouse, but the recommended method for clearing it out is melting the synth counters. I would like to report back to the committee and have them recommend another method, with your permission."
"As you were, Lieutenant." He'd made it clear long ago that it sound as though he were under orders, rather than giving them, that this hadn't been his own idea. It was part of the mockery, part of the farce, and as Daphne stiffened in his arms, he was truly sure the gentle sway he'd added to his hug was truly insulting, nothing else.
She was almost vibrating with fury, probably to hear them referred to in such a way, and he finally released her, reminding her how weak she was when she pitched back to the floor. Her head struck hard, and he watched the blood mushroom from her head like a growing sunrise. It had nearly knocked her unconscious, only his constant telepathic prodding at her brain kept her aware.
"You should be more careful, Daphne."
Her eyes barely opened, staring up at him, and for the first time, deep in those green depths he saw defeat. And despair. And pain. And all the things he'd been desperately searching for these weeks. She was too exhausted to hide it from him further. Hopefully too exhausted to hide it from her saplings, either, so that each and every one of their fears would forever be etched in her memory, and later Stryfe's.
He leaned down over her, gently picking her up, cradling her head against his shoulder. Her eyes were closed once again, and they didn't open as she was carried and gently set down on the soil. Instinctively, he felt her try to root, but the mutant inhibiting field was on, disallowing it. A soft moan was her only comment, carried out on an exhalation.
A bit of telepathic tampering, very subtle. He didn't dare do more for fear of waking the link too early, but he did have to make sure she didn't fall asleep. In her condition, he doubted she'd ever wake. Her vitals were fading, slowly, and Daran had informed him tightly that without medical treatment, she would be dead in ten hours.
A little suggestion to her mind to stay awake should make that ten hours very, very long.
She didn't know what he was doing, but she felt like crying at her inability to get rest, the agony of her burns, the constant fright of her children. She was finally to the point that she might consider retreating . . . finally.
Cable stared at her for a long moment, her wasted frame, the red and swollen burns. The pus there was actually blue, very interesting, and stank as badly as anything he might find rotting out of a corpse on the battlefield. Reminded, he turned his attention to his left shoulder, the blood she'd deposited there. Curiously, he wiped a bit off with his right hand, rubbing his fingers together thoughtfully to gauge the texture and viscosity.
He brought the fingers to his lips, tasted of her blood. Not sweet, no hint of the chlorophyll that he knew had to be stored in her body somewhere . . . but not particularly metallic, either. Very interesting.
He licked the rest from his fingers, then paused for a moment before heading back to the main building. An update on Stryfe's position might not be a bad idea. His monitor would inform him when her vitals dipped too low, and they could finish off the other trees.
When he would finally take back just a piece of what was his.
* * * * * * *
She wasn't aware of anything besides her daughters, calling to her, insistently and consistently, worried for her even considering their dead sisters.
She had no strength with which to respond. She was dying.
It felt like days had passed since Dayspring had left her there, in the soil he would not let her take root in. It seemed like years since she had slept, and had she the water she would have cried for it. She was too tired, she was just too tired . . . so tired.
She lay on the dead bodies of her children, and now, had she been given the chance, she would have taken up their remains into her own body. She would not be passing them along, she knew that now. Surely Dayspring would dispose of her body, not leave even a bit of DNA remaining, but enough remains so that Stryfe had something to stare at when he finally came.
She knew, on some level, that he wasn't coming. But she knew from the aching, throbbing psilink that she was never far from his thoughts, and she knew that he was trying. She cursed herself silently for making him promise to save her daughters, even though it gained him his sanity. Each death would weigh doubly on him now, and she regretted it more than she could say.
And what of her death, of her remains? Would she be completely atomized, or would there be enough left that perhaps some small plant would live of her death? It was the way of her Clan, to give life with death, the endless cycle of the Mother. They all believed that they would live on, she had been taught it since she was a child. But if she was not allowed to go back to the Mother, how would her soul be at peace? Without another life from her death, how could she pass on?
She found the strength somewhere, perhaps in fear, to send her daughters just a small ray of sunshine, and their relief made her weep dry tears, made her broken body convulse in sobs. She couldn't catch her breath properly, the burns didn't even hurt anymore. Would she be denied rest not only here but eternally? Could she suffer this until somehow her remains were taken care of properly? It had to have been only hours, but it was longer than the month she had been his prisoner.
She had not the strength to be bitter towards him. Sunspear, he called himself. As Stryfe had called himself Chaos-Bringer. So alike, they were. So intelligent, so dedicated to what they believed in.
Both with so many insecurities. Stryfe would have no one to guide him, and Dayspring himself didn't. Without that guide, both men would settle into this war and not even notice if the world fell apart around them. It would, she knew that now. Dayspring was just too powerful, his hate and resentment too great to let it lay until he died. He would not lay aside his sword, as the Mother Askani had predicted.
And what would Sanctity do, now that she was gone? There was no sister to protect Stryfe from her, no one but perhaps Aliya. More parched tears. Jen had to be hurting, knowing that Sanctity was secretly celebrating her capture and death. Daphne, made an Askani sister just to make certain the Askani had the power in her position as Clanmother, wife of the Askani'son.
Jenskot had sworn to protect the Askani'son, but would she do it at the price of spiting Sanctity? So many Askani sisters had been recruited by the old woman, who warped the Mother Askani's words into whatever she needed them to say. Nothing now to prevent her from having her way with Stryfe, using his own feelings of inadequacy to destroy him, to make him what his brother was. Make him what she thought the Askani'son ought to be.
She would spit on the thought of Sanctity if she'd had the saliva.
Her wandering thoughts didn't gather when they heard footsteps, didn't gather even when she was touched. She didn't care if he knew she was praying for sleep, knowing it brought death. She didn't care to impress him, didn't care to teach him. He had succeeded in gaining her apathy, whatever value it was to him.
Something very sweet and rather cool trickled into her mouth, and her attention sharpened enough to hear him.
"I thought you might be uncomfortable, and it is around lunchtime."
She knew it was a drug when the aftertaste kicked in, and she refused any more of it through willpower she didn't know she still had. He laughed softly.
"Come, come. It will make things a little easier on you."
Liar.
She heard an expansive shrug, and realized he'd heard the thought. She pried open heavy, gritty eyes, and stared at him. And the look in his eye.
Then the drug kicked in.
She gasped, her back straightening in a spasm as every newly awakened nerve ending in her body registered all her discomforts, her spine overloaded with the information. The burns became more painful than when she'd just turned human, as though the flesh were just then being seared by heat. She could feel the edge of the dead skin scraping the swollen, dying flesh beside it with every breath, could feel her blood pounding around her body, through her head. She could feel her desperate need for water triple with the teasing wetness of the sticky drugs. She didn't think she'd had the breath for screaming, but she let out quite a whopper before she forced herself to stop, to breathe. To relax.
Dayspring was observing her almost clinically. "You do realize I have the utmost respect for you." The same gentle voice. "Had there been another way, I would have thanked the Bright Lady that he had chosen it. Stryfe has done this to you, remember it, and for it I am sorry."
Dry, cracked lips refused to move, but somehow the words came.
"Sorry has . . . no meaning."
A corner of his mouth twitched up. "Tell me how much of a comfort that is, truthfully, Askani. You who were bound to serve me by the Mother Askani herself. You who were ravaged by a clone, succumbed to his clumsy love and inferior skills. Clan Chosen is mine, and I will take back every last heart from him if I have to do it with my bare hands."
The first alarmed cry registered to her, was mirrored by her in a harsh, dry cry of denial.
#My leaf – he's taking my leaves!#