Need some help here. Anyone?

[duchesspariah]

This story is based in the world of Midnight Rising, a world I created with druidspell. However, this predates the major uprising that occurs in the year 2005. (Obviously, by the date.)

Prologue

June 1, 1993

“C’mon, Sarki! Take the bastard down! You can do it. He’s tiring!” I heard First Sergeant Derek Dukon shouting from the sidelines. An instant later, Uncle Derek “oomphed” as my mother punched his arm for his foul language. I recognized the by-play without turning to watch, as Mom and Uncle Derek had enacted the scene thousands of times in our year at Campbell Barracks in Heidelberg, Germany. In the six years that Uncle Derek had served with my father, the count was endless. Though my twelfth birthday was upon me, my mother couldn’t quite grasp that I had heard every foul epithet in the vocabulary of the soldiers in my father’s company. And, if you added up the different curses in the vocabulary of the one hundred plus soldiers, there were heck of a lot of bad words. Once, I had even learned the painful lesson that some phrases didn’t have to have a four letter word in them to earn a spoonful of dish liquid.

I released my own groan as the point of my father’s wooden sword jabbed me in the stomach. The blunted tip might bruise, but I would be essentially unharmed. He knew that we—the Tuatha de Danaan, or Fae-- healed too quickly for even the hardest whack to do lasting damage. The poke was his way of getting my attention back on the fight, and—unsurprisingly—it worked. I had been told a hundred times that turning my back on the opponent in front of me would get me killed, so I forced myself to ignore the observers. After all, not everyone was able to learn to fight from a Company Commander holding the rank of Captain in the United States Army. Even fewer learned from a paranormal as versed in both modern and ancient arts of war. Though his birth certificate said he was forty-one, my father was actually a three hundred year old pseudo-immortal. In other words, as long as he did not lose his heart or his head, he could potentially live forever.

Dad’s thrust and feinted, his weapon clanking heavily against my own. From my vantage, he didn’t appear to be slowing or tiring at all. He often joked that after a couple hundred years, I would be able to keep up without trouble. Unfortunately, at a mere twelve years, my arm was beginning to feel heavy and the practice weapon was cumbersome. Omniscient as always, Dad took two quick steps backward. “Switch hands, Snowflake.” He grinned as I wrinkled my nose at his pet name for me, and he was still smiling as he renewed his attack.

Thrust, block, attack, par. Uncle Derek preferred teaching me archery, but my dad liked swords. The joke in my family was that I had gained my father’s height, my mother’s ice-blue eyes, and Derek’s enjoyment of projectiles. But, until mom stopped refusing to allow me to handle a gun, swords and bows were the only man-made weapons I could wield. Otherwise, I had to rely on my own two hands. Eventually, Uncle Derek assured me, I would know the quickest way to break a person’s neck and how to asphyxiate a person without crushing the windpipe. Of course, I knew better than mention that particular tidbit to Mom. She would likely go on a rampage about how Uncle Derek’s Tuveri demon ancestry gave him special blood-thirsty tendencies.

Block, block, block, block. My footwork was becoming sloppy, and I knew that I needed to either find an opening or make one. I absolutely refused to lose all three matches on my birthday. My smaller size worked as both an advantage and disadvantage. If I could just find a weakness to exploit, I would win! “Attack, Sarki! Slice him wide open!” came the enthusiastic encouragement from behind me again. Unfortunately, Dad must have heard “Attack Sarki. Slice her wide open!” Two seconds later, I was sprawled on the ground. If we’d been using metal swords, my entrails would have been beside me.

Company Commander/Captain Fhin Kinan acted gracious as he offered me a hand-up, but my Dad always won with class. Of course, after you trounce your opponent into the ground, you don’t have to batter the person’s pride on top of their body. At least, Dad and Uncle Derek often told me that. Personally, I would have probably found the energy for a victory dance if I had won. “What is this, Snowflake?” the kind baritone teased, rubbing a thumb across my sweaty forehead. I had heard that same voice bark commands to the men and women under his command, but he never used his “in-charge” tone on me.

Mom slid up to Dad, slipping her petite arm around his waist. “Fhin, leave Sarki alone. You are going to embarrass her. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her hold you off so long! My little girl really is growing up.”

Dad, Uncle Derek, and I all rolled our eyes. “Caitlyn, leave Snowflake alone. You are going to embarrass her,” Dad mimicked, earning a grin from all of us. However, the rest of the walk was dedicated to Uncle Derek and Dad pointing out the mistakes I had made during the mock-battle. We paused at various intervals for demonstrations. Finally, we were back at the small house that we rented on the base. Immediately, Dad and I raced to the showers while Mom began heating the birthday dinner she had cooked the day before and Uncle Derek nabbed the remote control to the television.

Thirty minutes later, the smell of the roast had infiltrated the house. Nothing else could have lured the two men from the television like the knowledge that a hot meal was being served in the kitchen. When Dad took his seat at the table and set the remote by his silverware, Mom and I laughed. “Hey! I fought hard to gain control of this thing. Don’t think I’m going to leave it unprotected to have it stolen back by the enemy.” A brief skirmish broke out as Mom passed me the potatoes, but Dad had predicted the attack and guarded the piece of plastic admirably.

The discussion turned from the television to my grades. Though I had been head of my class in the United States’ education system, I had received a rude awakening overseas. When compared to my German peers, I had been found lacking. For the first six months after the transfer, I had spent every waking moment trying to catch-up to my age group. Finally, my work was paying off. “Sarki, sweetheart, your teacher said that your rapid grasp of the German language is remarkable.” At my request, Mom passed me the plate of rolls before continuing. “So, what is it about the math that has you so confused?”

I took my time choosing which roll on the plate was up to my standards, delaying my answer for as long as possible. Honestly, I just hated the subject. Numbers were annoying and problematic. Mom, though, was something of an arithmetic genius. Numbers seemed to speak to her. If I admitted the truth, her feelings would be hurt. Finally, I grabbed a random roll from the plate and offered the dish back to Mom. As her fingers closed around the edges of the plates, her face was turned toward me.

Her eyes were the color of a clear, blue sky encased in ice. However, as she stared at me, the black of her pupils were dilated until the iris disappeared. “Vision!” I shouted, warning Dad and Uncle Derek that Mom was in a trance. A heartbeat after the word left my mouth, she threw herself at me. Gunshots erupted. Someone cried out to my side, from the direction of Uncle Derek. When the shots stopped, I heard something hit the floor and roll a short distance. “Grenade!” Uncle Derek called. The explosion destroyed my entire world, but I faded into the blackness without a fight.

CHAPTER 1