Chapter Text
Menetae couldn’t breathe.
It was a nightmare, it wasn’t real, it was a dream . It hardly mattered; her lungs still burned for breath she didn’t actually need. Around her darkness pressed from all sides, the cloying taste of stale air inescapable. She stumbled on the rocky ground, her footsteps echoing far too loudly. Why were they so loud? Surely she’d be discovered at this rate, surely he’d-
Come back for me .
His voice- soft and lilting like it had always been- set her on edge and only quickened her pulse. It wasn’t him, it couldn’t be him; Iban was dead and gone three years past and no matter how much his memory haunted her he was never coming back .
Menetae’s chest ached for air and if she hadn’t been so sure this was nothing but a nightmare she certainly would have collapsed by now. Each move she made brought her closer to the dim light in the distance, the lingering voice only driving her to run faster from whatever was pursuing her.
This was all only the beginning .
It was so close she could feel the cool breeze on her skin, feel relief begin to seep into her weary bones. She broke the threshold of the cavern and felt the rush of night air in her lungs. Menetae doubled over to breathe deeply. For some time she stood still and panted, desperate to catch her breath.
When she finally straightened again it all came rushing back to her in the shape of a slender figure waiting in the entrance of the tunnel. Menetae could feel his eyes on her, unwavering in their judgement. Her blood turned to ice in her veins. It wasn’t- it couldn’t be- Iban was long dead and gone, gone, gone.
I need you .
. . .
Menetae’s eyes snapped open with a sharp intake of breath. To assume she would ever get used to waking from a nightmare was apparently a grave mistake. She pulled herself up in bed, muscles quivering as she greedily sucked air into her burning lungs. Goosebumps spread across her skin, damp with cold sweat.
Despite what she told herself this one had felt real .
Menetae’s fingers trembled as she dropped her head into her hands, her limbs feeling as if they were filled with lead now that she was up and awake. The room hadn’t changed at all since she’d tried to fall into fitful sleep only a few hours ago; it was darker now and less footsteps crossed by the door, but every item was in the same place she’d left it. The window was still closed, the latch still across the doorway. By all accounts she was totally fine.
Then again, people who were fine didn’t cross the continent looking for a ghost.
She’d come a long way from Al’Kharid, moving west to chase a siren’s call that whispered in the corners of her dreams and in the predawn hours she often spent stoking a dying campfire. The further she went the worse the nightmares had become, and as of yet Menetae had hardly found a scrap of reason as to why.
She drew a long, shuddering breath and scrubbed her fingers through her hair. There would be no more rest for her tonight; after the third time this had happened Menetae had learned trying to go back to sleep was often worse than the first time around.
The mattress creaked beneath her weight as she slid herself out of bed, crossing the tiny inn room to the wash basin beside the window. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, the darkness playing off of her features in such a way she looked almost like a ghost. A pass of her palm over the candle placed there lit the wick and spread warm light across the wall. With the gently flickering flame she looked into the mirror again, relieved to see that with the shadows chased away she looked normal. Her fingers absently rubbed the scar across the bridge of her nose.
Despite everything, Menetae had hardly changed in the last few years. She looked more tired as of late- and perhaps a little more gaunt than usual- but her grey eyes still had that hawk-like look as if she were constantly analyzing her surroundings. These days she was , at least. She’d been seeing shadows that weren’t really there and every little thing creeping at the corners of peripherals served only to set her further on edge.
Honestly, she was exhausted from all of this.
A sudden knock at her door startled her; she extinguished the candle and practically leapt across the room for her cloak, slinging it around her shoulders and pulling the hood up over her head in one fluid movement. Almost as an afterthought she grabbed the dagger resting on the bedside table, finding solace in the familiar weight in her hand. Her fingers anxiously flexed against the leather-wrapped handle.
The door creaked open at her touch, revealing a young boy standing nervously on the other side. She eyed him critically, observing the way he shifted his footing under her scrutinizing gaze. Just a messenger, then. A pin was stuck into the collar of his shirt- Zamorak’s insignia gleamed in the dim lighting of the inn’s hallway.
“For the ranger,” he mumbled, avoiding her eyes entirely, “A letter and a request.” A scrap of parchment was offered to her in his clenched hand which she accepted with some degree of caution. When her fingers brushed his skin Menetae could feed the child trembling; she waved him off and watched relief cross his features before he quickly disappeared down the hall without another word.
With some hesitation she stepped back into her room, latching the door again and crossing the room to relight the candle on the bureau. In the flickering light her eyes scanned the page, the handwriting surprisingly neat and easy to discern. It was an invitation to exchange information signed only by the mark of Hazeel, detailed instructions on locating the building laid out for her. Whoever had sent this must have assumed she would accept without question and although the thought irritated her she had to admit they were mostly correct. She had her doubts, but this was tempting enough. The offer had definitely piqued her interest.
Menetae set to gathering the few things of hers scattered around the room, strapping on her leather armor as she went. She fiddled with the vambrace on her right arm, brow furrowing as it rubbed uncomfortably against the odd burn she’d been nursing for the better part of a week. As far as she could remember she hadn’t actually injured herself, but even with a slew of different healing salves and what little magic she possessed it only seemed to slowly be getting worse. She hardly had the time to investigate it further and resigned to just dealing with the low ache on a day to day basis.
With her quiver at her back and her bow in hand she tugged her cloak back around her and silently slipped from the room, making her way out of the tiny inn without drawing any unwanted attention to herself. The fewer people that saw her come and go, the better; it was far easier to ghost from one town to the next without anyone following her trail.
The night air was cool and crisp when she stepped out into the empty street. Menetae hadn’t bothered to check the time, but the moon was still settled comfortably in the sky. In a few hours people would begin to rise and begin their daily routines and with any luck she would be long gone by then.
Despite the clear directions in the note, the streets were winding and cut to the left or right at odd angles. As a tracker and hunter Menetae had always prided herself on getting point one place to another, but it didn’t take long for her to feel like she was simply going in circles in search of the meeting place. Just when she was about to give up and backtrack to the inn she spotted it tucked away on a side street, it's black shingles only adding to the already dingy appearance.
It was a pub, and the directions were actually terrible.
As she approached the door she spotted a clear brand burned into the wood- Zamorak’s insignia again- and she suspected it was both a calling card and a warning. Her brow furrowed. She lifted her hand to knock at the door, but before she could someone opened it beneath her fist.
“You’re certainly not what I expected.” The man staring back at her was tall and scrawny with a mess of brown hair sticking out from under his hood. He peered past Menetae into the deserted street as if checking for any unwanted eyes, and then ushered her into the dimly lit pub and closed the door with a soft click behind her.
“And you’re certainly rude ,” she replied as he circled past her, going to stand on the other side of the bar, “For someone who wants to swap information you certainly know how to greet a stranger.”
The man waved her off as he ducked behind the counter. When he resurfaced he slid a mug of cold tea in front of her followed by a simple plate of bread and cheese. After a little more rummaging about he settled into a seat across from her, his hands closing around a mug that smelled suspiciously like mead.
When Menetae raised an eyebrow at him he merely shrugged in response.
“Rangers are incredibly difficult to track, you know. It’s taken me weeks to get a bearing on you.” He took a long sip of his beverage. “You’ve made it hard to get into contact with you.”
“That’s the idea,” she shot back, “It’s usually that way when someone doesn’t want to be found.”
He chuckled quietly, setting his drink down on the bartop while she chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bread. A moment passed before he tugged the collar of his cloak down to reveal a brand-like scar of Hazeel’s insignia marring the stretch of skin below his collarbone.
“People like us don’t get to stay hidden forever.” His eyes narrowed as he released the fabric, eyeing her critically from behind his shaggy bangs. “My name is Clivet.”
“I suppose you already know my name as well, then.”
“Through an extraordinarily absurd amount of effort, yes, Menetae.” Clivet cocked his head to the side as if trying to gauge her reaction. “To be marked for divine purpose should be a gift and yet here you are avoiding it.”
The burn along her forearm itched quite suddenly and it took most of her discipline to avoid reaching for it. Clivet seemed to notice her flinch, however, and his gaze trailed down to the limb in question. He made no move to touch it, but it hardly mattered; the mark may as well have been on her face for how clearly he saw through her.
“It fucking hurts,” she conceded after a tense moment, taking a sip of tea, “And it’s getting worse.”
“Then you’re going in the right direction.” Clivet leaned back in his stool, balancing precariously on two legs. “Counter-intuitive, I know. Doesn’t make sense. I’ve been hearing whispers of the son of Zamorak on the rise, and now we have his old flame in flesh and blood marked for a task she doesn’t know how to complete.”
“That’s a bit personal,” Menetae cut in, setting her mug down a bit more forcefully than she had intended, “And definitely an assumption I would be very careful in making.”
“Am I wrong?”
Her eyes narrowed, but it was all the confirmation Clivet needed. He brought his chair down on four legs again and folded his hands on the counter.
“I’ve been hearing rumors of a plague breaking out in Western Ardounge,” he continued, “I thought you may find this information relevant to your interests. They say a man calling himself the son of Zamorak has taken up residence in a local cave network, hindering travel and just generally making life miserable for everyone.” Clivet smiled as if finding that fact quite amusing.
“And you think it’s Iban?”
“Now, now.” He shook his head leaned back into his chair again. “I didn’t mention any names , did I?”
“He’s dead ,” she snapped, glaring at him across the bar, “I buried him.”
“I believe you,” Clivet finally stood to pace across the empty floor, scrubbing his hands over his face and through his hair as he did so. “Although some Zamorakian circles believe that death is only the beginning.”
Menetae froze at his words, turning slowly in her seat to face him. She could feel ice in her veins with cold familiarity at the phrase. It had haunted her nightmares for the last two weeks and to hear it spoken aloud was something else entirely to her now. Her silence attracted Clivet’s attention and he finally met her eyes with some amount of alarm.
“I’ve had the same nightmare every night since the day the mark appeared,” she said carefully, “He always says that in some shape or form. I’d assumed it was something I heard in passing on the street, but…”
“What if it isn’t?” Clivet stopped his pacing and came back around to the counter, sliding into the seat opposite her again. “Necromancy isn’t exactly uncommon these days among the right circles, Menetae. Do you honestly think all of this is simply coincidence? Whatever your feelings on the matter you are marked , ranger. Don’t forget that. If Zamorak calls eventually you will have to answer that request.”
Menetae tapped her fingers against the bar, turning over options in her head. To ignore the mark meant she’d likely continue to have nightmares and that the burn would continue to spread. Adventuring out to Ardounge to investigate hardly seemed a high price to pay for even a small shred of relief.
After a moment she reached for her mug to drain the last of her tea, setting it down carefully before she made eye contact with Clivet again.
“I’ll go.” She held her hand up when he opened his mouth to speak to silence him. “Not for you, or for your god. I’ll go for him.”