Chapter 33: 32. From Blood and Bone

 

 

- DILLON - 

 

I have a scar for every person I have slain. 

Their last gifts to me before I put them in the dirt. When I close my eyes, I see their faces in the darkness, hear their cries. It is like something unholy, as if the darkness had taken the form of a ravenous beast, devouring me from within. 

Their lights were extinguished by my hands, their legacy reduced to nothing. Wiped from history. The only piece of them that remains are in my memory and on my skin. I carry that guilt with me always, their deaths seared into the back of my mind. I make no excuses, no denials, no apologies for what I have done. I know what I am.

But, does Arellia know what she is? Does anyone? She was prophesied to save the world from corruption, from misery. To bring back Magic, to end famine and war. Bring peace. Zarxos reincarnated. To rebuild this segregated world into something new. Or will she destroy it instead, just as easily as she took those lives?

There is a stillness in my soul as I look at her. Would her family recognise her now? Is she truly the Redeemer who will save us all? I ended her life before I ever got the chance to find out. Before she got a chance to taste freedom. Not that freedom ever meant anything for someone like me, but for her, maybe it means something more. 

I shoved a blade into her throat out of fear. It was too easy. Like a hot knife through butter. I watch blood gush from her wound like the waters of a violent river. My hands tremble. I have killed men for much less. But, this is not a fight. This is murder. 

Another life taken. She left me no scars save the one in my soul.

Slowly, I pull out the machete and cover her wound and squeeze, trying to staunch the flow of blood. It’s useless. What am I doing? If she is not dead, she will be soon. I feel guilt creep up the curve of my spine. 

She did not deserve this. But does anyone deserve the deaths they were given? Did these bandits? We all fight to survive in this world. I see torn limbs and bleeding torsos. Organs and sinew scattered across the sand, sticking to small rocks. Blood soaks the dirt. It was not a fight I saw. It was a bloody massacre.

“Zivrét d’Arcana!” A child’s voice wails from behind a broken carriage. In the sun, he is but a quivering black shadow amongst a sea of red. He peeks his head and stares at me wide-eyed. He does not cry or baulk. 

“Kid,” I call over to the boy, Emile, still as timid as I saw him last. He clutches the wooden toy to his chest still, but his small hands do not tremble. “You shouldn't be here. It’s dangerous.”

“She killed them.” He says, voice as dry as the Illyan desert. I nod and pry apart Arellia’s limbs from the hunched position she folded herself into and gather her in my arms. She is light as a feather. I limp and drag myself through blood, weaving past mangled bodies. The boy watches her lifeless form in my arms with morbid fascination, face impassive as a stone.

“Don’t look, you’ll get nightmares.” I hobble past him and toward small houses in the distance, heading towards the hills. I will bury her here and be on my way. No one needs to know their beloved princess was the cause of this disaster.

“Already have them.” He replies and follows behind me.

“As bad as this?”

“I don’t know,” He mumbles. “Pa and ma are gone. They came in the night, asked for directions.”

His steps slow just a touch, “They made me look. Pa was cut at the neck, the way we kill our goats. He didn’t cry like ma. They took her upstairs. I heard her for hours.” He mumbles.

I clench my fists against Arellia’s skin. I don’t have the heart to look at him. I have no words to comfort the boy. My silent condolences are all I am able to give. He has learned the lesson young, much younger than I. The world is unforgiving– to survive, you must outlive your enemies. You must become as cruel as they are. Sometimes, worse.

This is not the fate I wish for the boy. But I fear I may be too late.

“They made me swear to tell no one or they’d kill me too.”

“Why are you telling me now?” I take a small glance at the skinny boy. His footsteps are light and fast beside me. Black hair matted from oil and dirt. His face has sunken in, eyes hollow and dark, lips cracked and dry as the shattered plains of the Valley.

“They can’t hurt me. They’re all dead.” I see a hint of a smile on his gaunt face. 

“Yes, they are.”

The small boy opens his mouth, on the verge of saying more when a small shadow appears in the distance, obscured by waves of scorching heat. Or have I finally lost it? Sweat drips from my chin. The boy sprints past me down the rocky path. I pant lightly and continue on. One aching step at a time.

But, it is not just one shadow in the distance. There are dozens. Behind my sweat-drenched lashes, I see them– farmers and traders, huddled together under the blinding sun. Emile runs holding a hand of a middle-aged man. His cheeks are wet, his lips are stark white and cracked like valleys, contrasting his deep brown complexion.

“Zivrét d’Aracana!” He sputters. There is a hint of sorrow and awe in his eyes as he stares at the dead princess in my arms. He reaches out a trembling hand. I flinch and pull back.

“The Angel and her protector!” He cries and drops to his knees. I grit my teeth. They share hushed whispers, flicking their eyes from Arellia and then to me. 

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“Get up, old man.” I spit. I want to jump into the frozen rivers of Riettke, wash off the blood and sweat and soothe my burning flesh. Instead, I am confronted by yet another Faith loving fool. He stands suddenly and smiles at me, eyes shining.

“Let me take her from you,” He reaches over and bows lightly before taking her from my arms. It feels strange now that I no longer feel her in my hands. 

“The Angel will be reborn from flesh and bone, and on the night of his resurrection, he will cleanse the world with his blood under the Black Sun. May He sing your name, may He sing your name…” The man chants under his breath. I watch him walk away. 

“Do you believe in the prophecy, kid?” 

“Not till today.” He takes my blood-soaked hands and pulls me lightly towards the crowd of villagers. 

“What about you?” He asks timidly as we make our way down the uneven road. I believed that Arellia was nothing more than an unfortunate soul, but now… Could it be true? Has Zarxos really been reincarnated? Or is it all just religious nonsense folk like to believe?

I smile at the boy and let go of his hand. I stumble in the dirt, blinding pain shoots through my entire body, now that my adrenaline has worn off. I feel faint, dizzy. 

“Be careful!” A young woman says as she takes my arm and hooks it around her shoulders. “Lean on me.” She smiles. I cannot. She reminds me of Arellia, reminds me of another time. I stare at her black hair, shiny against the light of the sun. When she turns, I expect silver eyes to peer back into my own. Instead, I see deep brown.

“We will take care of you.” She says with a hint of sorrow in her eyes. We walk slowly under the burning heat for what seems like an eternity. I focus only on my shallow breathing and the searing pain in my feet.

“Leria!” A man shouts. “Bring him here!” She lets me go and pulls me into a small shabby house. The exterior is sandy and cracked. Dry grass and weeds snake over the front path, obscuring the entrance. I smell the familiar scent of spice and herbs when I enter. Inside, the villagers sit huddled in a wide circle on the stone floor. The middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair smiles at me as he approaches, slow and careful.

“You will rest now,” He says as his fist connects to the side of my head. I bring up my arm to block him, but I feel weak. The darkness at the edges of my vision crowds in, like falling sand.

***

In my dream I am alone, passing under the narrow arch that leads from the edge of our small town square to a wide clearing where my brother’s ashes lay interred. I smell the pungent sweetness of wildflowers in the spring, feel the softness of her hand in mine. How many times have I walked there in dreams but in life, I stood there only once? 

“It isn’t your fault,” Ifrie tells me as she squeezes my hand and kisses my trembling lips. “It isn’t your fault…”

I want to see her again, to hear her voice and taste her lips. She exists now only in my memory. In my dream, I let go of her hand and open my eyes to nothing but fields of blossoming flowers, her voice a whisper in the wind. 

In this dream, I open my eyes to a sea of red chrysanthemum flowers, and beautiful eyes of silver.

***

I wake with her face in my mind and her name on my lips. Groggily, my eyes flutter open to painted constellations. Crimson and gold trails swirl and loop through the blackness. Symbols of purity, love, war. Death. All painted against black tapestries hung on every wall. I shift uncomfortably.

“By the Angel, he lives.” A man mutters from somewhere behind. I let out a disembodied moan. The room spins. My head is heavy on my neck. I am sitting in a chair. I hear faint prayers and chants in the distance, smell the incense smoke waft through my nose.

“Mercenary,” Emile calls. His voice is soft and trembling. Fear? Excitement? I cannot tell from here. “She will live again.”

I grunt my response, my scepticism. I cut her throat with my own hands. Felt her blood on my skin. I felt her die. It isn’t your fault, Ifrie echoes. But, it is. Chants grow louder, faster. They stomp their feet in rhythmic chaos. The boy pulls me back into the chair and lifts my head.

“Look!” I hear the anticipation in his voice. “She will wake!” 

I shake my head and drag my eyes to a small cot in the middle of the dilapidated room. She lies completely unblemished on a nest of red chrysanthemum flowers. Her beauty shines. So peaceful, small. I see the cut on her neck, red and gaping and avert my gaze. A man in a white robe shuffles into the room, his eyes locked on mine. With a small pocket knife, he makes a quick incision on his wrist and drains the blood into a silver goblet. 

I watch intently as he lifts Arellia by her neck and brings her lips to the cup. Anger pools inside me. It is barbaric. 

“S-stop…” I mumble, but the chanting masks my pleas. I cannot watch. There is something perverse about this. It feels… wrong. I squeeze my eyes shut, will my nerves to calm.

“Look!” Emile nudges me and grins, his gaze filled with boyish wonder. I flick my eyes to her and see a red trail of blood run down the curve of her jaw. The pounding stops. The chanting ceases. I stare at her lifeless body until something moves just at her neck. The sound is small, bubbling and gurgling like a pot of hot water, almost at the boil. 

Small tendrils of blood rise like red tiny vines from the edge of her wound, folding and diving back into her flesh, stitching her together. I flinch from the sight. Howls of cries and gasps erupt all around me.

“Zivrét d’Arcana!” They scream. I shake my head as the wound I inflicted closes, leaving nothing but smooth olive skin. As if the wound was never there. My breaths are uneven. Her lips part just a touch, long lashes flutter open to reveal beautiful silver eyes. My hands tremble. I feel like I am going to vomit. 

“Do you believe in the prophecy?” The boy asks.

Not till today.

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