Chapter 8: Act I Chapter 8: Strings

Chapter 8: Strings

In the weeks that followed, Enya’s life fell into a steady rhythm. She’d wake up and go on recordkeeping duty, train with Wren in the evening, then return home at night. Whenever she had a moment of free time, she’d pull out the cube and try again. These days she’d even developed a habit of keeping it in hand during patrol, idly attempting to reshape it while her eyes scanned the surroundings.

The cube had yet to move. There had been a few moments when she thought she felt it quiver, when just a bit of magic was drained from her reserves, clearly having been used for something, but no true reshaping had happened. Wren assured her that this was normal, but as the days passed, Enya could feel herself growing increasingly antsy.

Every patrol, she constantly felt like there were eyes on her back. She saw golden lights and red eyes flit by her dreams, and every hint of movement was met with suspicion.

Since her encounter with Aeon, Enya hadn’t stumbled across another Rot sighting. She wasn’t sure if it was because the Rot had moved elsewhere or if Morris was still giving her easier patrols. Whatever the reason, it had her on edge, waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop.

Then, two weeks later, she stumbled across the Rot.

Whether it was a stroke of irony or coincidence, it was once again to the north of Acrine, a village only half an hour away from the one that had been destroyed half a month ago.

The first thing that alerted her was the smell.

The Rot, fittingly for its name, was always accompanied by a putrid scent that was a mix between decaying bodies, damp wood, and iron. The moment she caught a lingering trace of that smell, Enya took off running in that direction, shoving the clay into her bag and unsheathing her sword at the same time.

By the time she reached the place, the town was already in ruins.

Wisps of the dark, smoke-like substance were beginning to fade, leaving twisted, crooked buildings and ash beneath it. Towards the center of town, where the Rot was thickest, hulking shadows rose out, half cloaked in the substance as they scattered across the ruined village. Enya ran faster, jaw clenched.

One Decay was wandering around the outskirts of the town. It had a large, worm-like body, and it slithered between the rubble, body contorting to fit between small crevices. Enya raised her sword, about to strike, when Wren’s voice sounded in her head. Decays with softer bodies usually don’t draw magic with their limbs, she’d said.

She slowed down, coming to a stop ten or so feet away, and looked around. She grabbed a nearby chunk of rubble, what looked like a broken plank of wood, after checking to make sure there was no lingering Rot on it. Tugging it out from where it was stabbed into the ground, her eyes narrowed in on the Decay, which had turned and was beginning to move back into the village.

Drawing her arm back, her hand and the plank glowed red. She lunged forward, flinging the board at the creature and igniting it into flames in the same motion.

It didn’t hit the head, as Enya had hoped, but it did land cleanly on the main body. The creature released a shriek as its body burst into flames, and Enya barely had time to dodge out of the way as spikes shot out from its soft skin. She didn’t hesitate, running up to the burning creature as it writhed over the ruins and slicing off its head with another burst of magic to pull the blade through. It flopped onto the ground, unmoving, and Enya released a held breath.

The Decay taken care of, she rushed into the destroyed village, scanning the rubble for survivors. At this point the Rot had faded entirely, making it safe to run through. Her head turned every which way as she wove around the rubble, searching, hoping.

And then, she heard it.

A soft groan, barely audible, emanating from behind a large, twisted building. Heart thumping in her chest, Enya ran forward.

There, lying beneath a fallen roof, was a man sprawled onto the ground. Enya rushed forward, dropping to her knees and turning the man over. He was unconscious, and his right leg was bloodied and mangled, the foot having disintegrated into Ash. Pressing her ear to his chest, she could barely make out a faint, unsteady heartbeat.

Mind racing, Enya stood and draped the man over her back, attempting to hold his injured leg out of the way. He must have tried to run, but his leg had been caught by the Rot. Gritting her teeth, Enya carefully wove around the ruins, eyes continuously scanning for lingering Decays.

She heard the whir of metal, then a squelch. Craning her neck, Enya turned to see a man in armor cutting down a Decay deeper into the town. Behind him, she could make out the faint outlines of a few other figures in the middle of their own fights. Her shoulders relaxed. Paragons. She could leave them to deal with the remaining Decays. For now, she had to get the man she was carrying over to the temple.

Getting around the rubble without exacerbating the man’s wounds was a slow and tedious affair. Her pants were soaked through and stained with blood from the man’s leg. She grit her teeth. The moment she stepped foot onto the main road, Enya inhaled, pulling from her magic reserves, and her legs glowed red as she shot forward. She hadn’t used motion magic in a long time, and she could tell that she’d pulled more magic than she needed to, but she didn’t have time to worry about that right now. She kept her gaze focused ahead, moving with a single minded purpose, hands holding tightly onto the injured survivor as she raced away from the ruined village.

—

Enya burst through the temple doors, startling a woman sweeping by the doorway. She panted, out of breath, and the woman gasped when she noticed the trail of blood following after her.

“Enya?”

She turned, seeing Theresa’s familiar face watching with wide eyes from across the room.

“Rot,” she panted out. “Found him in the wreckage. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

Theresa’s gaze hardened as she hurried over, helping support the man. “This way,” she directed, tugging them towards the hallway.

Their surroundings passed by in a blur as they rushed down the temple halls, and Enya vaguely thought that she must be dripping blood and dirt all over the pristine marble floors.

Eventually they reached a large room lined with cots. Other patients could be seen lying on various beds, and a few other medics were in the room, treating wounds and administering medicine. The medics spun around as they rushed in, and by the time Theresa had helped Enya get the man onto one of the empty cots, they’d already hurried over to help.

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Enya stood off to the side, watching numbly as the medics began ripping away the torn cloth around the man’s leg. There was a system to their movements, the way they spread out to gather supplies, no doubt used to such emergencies. Enya reached a hand out, then dropped it. She would only get in the way.

Taking a few steps back, Enya spotted a dirty rag on the ground and set to work wiping away the blood that had dripped onto the ground. There was less than she’d expected. Probably, her mind supplied, because most of it had dried.

Her surroundings faded as she busied herself cleaning, time passing by in a jumble of blurred murmurs and yells. It wasn’t until she straightened, tossing the rag into a nearby basket filled with other dirty cloths, that the world became solid again. She wasn’t sure how long had passed, by when she peered over at the cot, she saw the man resting on top, his leg now covered in bandages. He appeared to be asleep, and his breathing was slow, but even. Enya felt her shoulders relax.

“Are you okay?”

Enya spun around to see Theresa, eyebrows knit with worry. Her dark skin was flushed, curly hair falling loosely in front of her eyes, but she looked still looked composed despite her visible exhaustion. More composed than Enya was, certainly.

She shook her head. “I’m fine.” She paused, considering what she probably looked like. “The blood isn’t mine.”

Theresa sighed with relief. “I thought so. You were patrolling?”

Enya nodded. “His village was hit with the Rot. I think he tried to run, but his leg got caught. Some Paragons are dealing with the leftover Decays.” She paused, brow furrowing. “I’ll have to go back later and build a pyre for the ones who didn’t survive.”

“I can say the prayer,” Theresa offered. Enya nodded gratefully.

“Is he alright?”

Theresa bit her lip, fingers running along the fabric of her dress. “He’ll live, but his foot is gone and his leg was twisted. We administered an herb that should keep him asleep for the next day.” She swallowed. “I’m going to try untwisting it, I just need to rest a bit first.” She paused. “Could you stay for a bit? Just until I’m done?” she asked, eyes hopeful.

Enya nodded. With the Paragons already at the scene, she likely wouldn’t be needed anyway.

A few minutes later, Theresa was sitting on a stool at the foot of the cot while Enya stood nearby, watching. Theresa’s expression was determined as she carefully loosened the bandages enough to allow for movement. Enya’s eyes darkened when she saw the extent of the wounds, free of obscuring blood and cloth. As Theresa had said, his leg from the knee down had been twisted around, the flesh bulging and unnatural in form.

After checking to make sure that the man was deep in sleep, Theresa inhaled and held her arms up over the wound. A white glow formed around her hands, steadily rising in intensity until the area around the cot was visibly brighter than the rest of the room. Enya blinked. She’d never seen Theresa use this much magic at once before.

As Theresa exhaled, the magic shifted, forming a familiar pattern of ripples as it gathered around the wound. Enya watched, transfixed, as what seemed like individual strands of magic wrapped around the limb, gently tugging flesh and bone around. The wound healed in pieces, Enya realized. Individual strips would be reshaped, then the next. Memories floated to the surface of her mind, recalling the almost fibrous way Aeon’s hand had looked as she reformed it. Remembering the chain Wren had formed when she’d killed that Decay. Not waves, but strings. Millions of strings being stitched together.

Enya blinked, and when her eyes refocused, she realized the glow had faded. The leg was still bloody and the foot was missing, but it had been twisted back into its original position. She hurried over to Theresa, who slumped over in exhaustion. Enya’s eyes widened. From the corners of Theresa’s sleeve, traces of dust fell, and she briefly saw a hint of cracking skin before Theresa hurriedly pulled her sleeve down.

“I’m fine,” she assured. “It’s just the consequences.”

Enya’s brow furrowed. “How much of your reserves have you gone through?”

Theresa didn’t meet her eyes. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Theresa—“

“Raynor’s going through the Rite next week,” she interrupted. “We both know what it takes to be a practitioner.” Her fingers wrung the cloth of her dress. “I can handle this.”

Enya opened her mouth to respond, then closed it. She frowned, and when she spoke, the words came slowly. “Not doing the Rite doesn’t make you weaker.”

Theresa smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I know.” She stood, smoothing out her dress. “Thank you for staying,” she said, voice soft. “I’m going to keep an eye on his leg for a little longer. I’ll be sure to help you with the prayer later.”

Enya didn’t think she’d done much, hadn’t done enough. She hesitated, eyes darting around the room, but in the end she just nodded. She didn’t know what else to do.

—

That evening, after she was done building the pyre and Theresa had said the passing prayer, Enya returned home and quietly shut the door behind her. She pulled out the cube of clay again and stared down at it, passing it between her hands, mind still filled with images of Theresa’s magic weaving around the wound and Aeon reforming the corpse’s body.

She closed her eyes, pulling magic, only this time, she pictured them moving like strings, wrapping around the clay as individual strands tugging the material into a different shape. She grit her teeth, forcing her mind to focus, to not lose the thread of magic.

When she finally opened her eyes and moved her hands away, she found herself staring down at the clay.

It had taken five minutes, it was far from perfect, but there, resting on her palm, was a misshapen, lumpy sphere.

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