Lady of the Veiled Vale

Cranky Raiden

"It's her. She is the dragon."

   The T'sa Ina'i laid a hand on his arm, rare for their kind. "I do not know if my sister is a dragon. I only know that this was the most intimidating thing she could think of, to guard her most treasured memories."

   The image her words painted was bleak. His stalwart Lady, who treated the wounds of so many, could not escape her own. The only good part of her life had obviously been attacked; else she would not need to guard it so fiercely.

   But that also meant...

   "Aye, good sir," her head bowed in sadness. "I was not a part of the good days, so I was kept out as well."

   Raiden had reached his limit. He broke the link, returned to his body, and slid to the floor with a graceless thump. Hrrtel cheeped sleepily, and even Myrah stirred in the nesting box they'd made for her.

   Unable to bear even being in the presence of such sorrow, he went the one place he could think of where he could blow off some steam. Through the borders of the Sanctuary, and to the place the Greeks thought of as Mount Olympus. In actual fact, it was no mountain, nor was it even on Earth, but it was where the gods reclined on their couches to watch the worlds.

   "Ares!" he bellowed. "I'm spoiling for a fight. Throw me in next!"

   Knowing his friend would hear him, he began the purification ritual in Ares' waiting room. When he was clean and garbed appropriately, he approached the War Portal. It never failed to amuse him that one was required to be clean before engaging in bloody warfare.

   A voice boomed in his ear "Battle of Telemnar up. Enemy is wearing red."

   More quietly, friend to friend, he said that he'd chosen a battle where seeing red was a good thing. "Thanks," he grunted. Then he launched himself through the portal, into one of the many wars that Ares oversaw. It did not matter that it was no species he recognized. All that mattered was administering a little justice to try and balance the furious haze of injustice that gripped him.

   Every enemy he slew wore the old woman's face. Every soldier he saved from a killing blow wore Gwinn's, and sometimes Samantha's.

   Gwinneth stretched lazily. She felt pleasantly tired upon waking, but otherwise there was no sign that anything untoward had happened during the night. She vaguely remembered someone holding her and singing, as she had the past few nights, but it didn't bother her. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew it probably ought to, but it didn't.

   If she were more knowledgeable of the ways of the gods, she would have recognized the calming aura Raiden had projected, along with a little forgetfulness. But she was mortal, at least as far as she knew, so she was untroubled. She had slept well, and that was what mattered.

   The only thing that bothered her was the absence of her Guardian. She dressed in another of the lovely and practical outfits the elves had provided, and waited. The only person to arrive was Varla with the breakfast tray. She was hesitant to appear needy in front of the elf, so she pretended indifference.

   By the time she got to the fruit plate, she'd begun to worry. She had resolved to ask after her erstwhile protector when Varla came for the tray, but there was no need. The man—god—came in with her, with nary a word of explanation.

   Raiden looked tired, and not the kind that could be remedied by rest. He looked spirit-weary. He made no mention of it, merely asked if she was ready to greet the day.