all the king's men
Poets had written almost too readily of sunrise in Shevat, and in copious quantity. Certainly its literary annals were full of far too many cuartos of mediocre verse, lines praising the first blush of light on her curves and spires, expounding in halting iambic pentameter on the divine paintbrush that daubed warm color over the white stone and silver trim. And certainly this fine spring dawn would be a delight to any lyricist's eyes, as the first rays of the waking sun spilled over the rim of the floating nation, bathing its slow revolution in the glow of a new-born day.
There were no poets to be found in the Gear hangar under Shevat's inner rim this morning, however; only one man occupied the silent metal room, and lauding the beauty of first light was the last thing on his mind. Instead, he was just finishing the last of a series of checks on his Gear -- modified considerably from the typical slender Shevite model, and containing components indubitably illegal to most everyone below his station -- with a look of near-blankness that suggested a mind venturing elsewhere even as the hands remained to work. His tall, stocky body maneuvered around the catwalks with the ruins of an old precise grace, affected by a faint, awkward limp; as he stopped at one side to take a reading, his free hand rose absently into the hood of his voluminous cloak to scratch at a line of scar tissue down his cheek, before catching itself and returning impatiently to his side.
Already packed with supplies, the Gear itself was the last item on his list: once it was attended to, he would be done. He had considered some light body armor, but decided against it as slightly ridiculous; he was forced to admit to himself that if he really did come into a direct enough confrontation for it to be necessary, it would most likely already be too late. None of the ancient documents the queen had given him to read throughout his long recovery had suggested that Grahf was the type to take prisoners; and his son... well, never mind about his son.
Nonetheless, he felt ready for this; he was anxious to be gone, anxious to be in motion. Despite the dread of what he would find once he began to search, the dread that had, in truth, been more keeping him from the venture than any infirmity up until this point, it would be good to be taking true action. Comforting. To say nothing of the relief of finally leaving a house full of nothing but memory and pain, a nation where he was a stranger at home...
The cool metal hiss of the opening door caught his ear, of a sudden; his head jerked toward the sound, almost convulsively.
"You're going, then."
The man relaxed slowly at the the quiet unquestion, in the familiar dry voice, even as his eyes found the petite figure of the Queen in the doorway. She did not cut a particularly regal or impressive figure at the moment: almost seeming smaller than usual, half-buried in the thick white shawl around her shoulders, the dark pouches framing her eyes leaving no doubt that this dawn was the tail end of one of her too-long nights of unrelenting work. Her thin features had settled in a near-painful, pitiful cast of exhaustion, misery, and age.
Khan inclined his head regardless, in soft recognition, and stepped from the catwalk, setting the instruments aside. "My Lady," he acknowledged quietly, bowing fully before her, the cloak swirling out around him. "I am indeed; as soon as I've finished my preparations." His tone was calm, polite, but hollow and dull, eternities removed from the bright mischief of the young man he had been a bare decade hence.
Zephyr sighed, softly, tugging the shawl around her shoulders tighter against the morning chill carried through the steel. "I'd thought as much," she said lowly, gazing up at him with sad, weary eyes as he straightened once more. "Are you -- are you certain you're well enough?" Her voice was oddly wistful, almost pleading, sounded so even to her own ears; it was met with only the soft rustling of Khan's cloak as he returned to his work.
"I have to be." The words were quiet, spoken mostly to the terminal over which he stood. "God knows it's been long enough; I have to go now, before it's too late. If it isn't already."
The queen bowed her head in concession, tendrils of escaped hair spilling from beneath the disheveled black veil to frame her childlike face. "Must you go?" she asked softly, so softly it was nearly a whisper. "If it's been this long... perhaps..." The hooded face turned toward her, silently, expressionless in shadow; she broke off and bit her lip, dropping her eyes. "No. I suppose I can't ask that of you, can I."
Khan's head shook mutely beneath the cloak, in agreement, as he turned away once more. "No," came the low, flat reply, though still less to her than to himself. "I'm sorry, my Lady; but I've made too many mistakes, and I can't afford another." His voice fell even further, almost beyond hearing. "I could have saved him, and I did nothing. I can't fail him again."
She nodded, slowly, watching the ground. "I understand, of course... but, Khan -- I hate very much to say this, believe me ... but..." Her eyes raised to him, frank, worried, pained. "How do you know there is still anything left to save?"
The hands clicking on the keypad froze abruptly, tightening into fists for the briefest of moments; then they relaxed again, and resumed their work as though nothing had happened. "I don't," their owner replied, too calmly. "But I have to believe there is."
"And if there isn't?" Zephyr pursued softly. Khan looked back at her again, briefly, terribly distant; his voice, when he spoke, was so deeply inhuman that for once she was glad she couldn't see his face.
"I'll do what I have to," he answered emotionlessly, and simply returned to the screen.
Zephyr bit her lip again, stepping hesitantly closer to the catwalk. "I'm sorry. I'm being horrid, I know." No response. She sighed, slightly. "Khan, my friend, I wish I could explain to you... The danger you face -- "
"The danger I face," Khan cut her off, "I know well enough, thanks to the manuscripts you gave me, my Lady. And with the knowledge, facing it will be that much easier." He cast another glance down at the display screen, tapping at the results of the new scan, his voice dropping again to a bare murmur. "A devil I know..."
"And perhaps another hundred you don't," Zephyr pointed out a touch acerbically, and then only sighed again. "But I'm glad they've helped you, at any rate. I only wish there were something more I could do..." Her voice filled, once more, with the same ancient regret, the sort of aching helplessness that had long since become her legacy. That tone seemed to penetrate Khan's deadly calm at last, bringing him back to face her with a serious -- though no less remote -- gaze.
"You've done all you could, Lady," he told her quietly; "I wouldn't expect any more, and neither should you." He stepped back down to her at last, clicking off the diagnostic cycle behind him, gazing down upon her with his shadowed eyes. "But if you'd give it, there is one thing I'd ask of you."
Zephyr met his eyes, her own sober and sad. "And that is?"
Khan looked down at her a moment longer, as though considering... and then, unexpectedly -- and somewhat painfully, his weaker leg protesting sharply -- lowered himself first to one knee, and then the other, hands dangling loosely at his sides as he bowed his head to her. "Your blessings, Lady," he said simply. "Would you give me that?"
With careful dignity, trying not to show how her heart cracked and broke, Zephyr reached out to draw the hood away. Khan sighed, heavily, and reluctantly tilted his head back to meet the light; the gesture showed clearly, for the first time in years, the patterns of thick scarring across the skin, raised lines of flesh like a map drawn in sickly gray-white and occasional angry pink. Ignoring the scars -- aside from a familiar twinge of sad horror at the memory of their origin -- she took his head between her tiny hands and bent to press a soft, maternal kiss into his forehead. "Gladly," she murmured; "every one that I have to offer." Her fingertips stroked over his cheek, lightly, and then she withdrew, adding softly, "And in return... come back safely, dearest. That's all I ask."
Khan opened his eyes once more, regarding her candidly; he began to get back to his feet, stumbled, and most likely would have fallen had she not moved immediately to support him. "I'll try, Lady," he promised lowly. "If I succeed." Zephyr met this with a small sound of almost chiding.
"Even should you fail -- "
"If I fail," he interrupted again, bluntly, breaking once more their unspoken compact to leave unsaid those things which should be so, "I won't be in any shape to return."
She bowed her head at that, and nodded slowly, mutely... and then, after a moment's apparent debate, took his gloved hands carefully in hers. "Then good luck," she whispered, simply; Khan squeezed her hands gently, with a faint, dry half-smile.
"It's going to take more than luck, Zephyr," he said simply; daring, for the first time in all their years of friendship, to call her by name. "Far more."
She returned the smile, her own weary and sad. "I know."
Khan stood before her for one more moment, scarred and battered: a broken man at war with fate and forced to fall back too many times, too far; a widower and father bereft, with only one thing left to lose. Then he only bowed low over her hands, and released them; and, replacing his hood once more, he turned swiftly, strode up the catwalk, stepped across into his Gear and was gone before she could even think of calling him back one more time. Better that way, Zephyr knew... though somehow she could not quite bring herself to believe it.
She watched him open the entrance of the hangar, felt the shocking blast of chill, thin air. She watched him launch through the doorway, and she watched it close again behind him, as if the world below were swallowing him whole.
Then she began the walk through the halls back to her quarters; but that journey had never before seemed so long, nor so void of light or hope.