by G. P McKenna
Kira grunted, but Amicia ignored her as she stared at the pillow and her head, “no.”
“I’ll do it.”
We all turned to Pogue. His face was pale, making both the blue of his eyes and the red of his tear-stained cheeks pop. Seemingly unable to unclench his right fist or remove his left from Ilya’s hand, he motioned for the Pillow. Amicia got to it first and held it to her chest, “Pogue-”
“No, Amicia,” he said and tried to snatch it away from her. She held tightly, and a strained sob escaped Pogue’s lips, “he’s at peace. I don’t want him in no pain. Please, let me do this.”
“Fine,” Amicia cried and shoved the pillow towards him, “do whatever you want, but I’m not going to stand here and watch you kill him.” She turned on her heels and stormed out the door. Eteri sighed and leaned down to whisper something in Ilya’s ear before kissing his forehead. Straightening up, she patted Pogue’s arm before going after Amicia.
“Listen to me,” Kira said once the door has closed, “if you’re going to do this, you cannot half-ass it. You’ll have to be firm and cut off all airways.”
“I know,” Pogue let go of Ilya’s hand and leaned over to gently press his lips to his, “I’m sorry. I love you,” he whispered and lowered the pillow, but hesitated. Fresh tears caressed his checks and he fell to his knees by the bedside, “I can’t do it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Kira said something, but whether it was insulting or comforting, I couldn’t tell. Somehow the pillow had found its way into my hands and I lowered it, doing what had to be done. It took some time, some shaking. Somebody was speaking into my ear, but it wasn’t audible over the deafening thump of my heart. Eventually, they stopped talking, which I was thankful until a sharp pain shot through my ear.
“Are you deaf?” my mum’s voice hissed, “that’s enough. He’s dead.”
Dead. There one moment, gone the next. It felt as if the world was stripped of oxygen, but I heard Pogue and that when I knew it wasn’t only wolves who made sad sounds at the moon.
Twenty
Frigophobia
Fear of the cold
The blood was still wet on the marble floor as I ran my finger through it. It wasn’t fair. What had I done that caused the Deities to hate me so much? The pressure boiled from my chest, flooding my body, and pacing around was doing little to relieve it. I climbed up three steps and jumped, the thick crimson causing me to slip upon landing. I put my hand down to prevent myself from falling. It came up wet and cold and red, but what did it matter when I was already coated in the stuff? I stomped my foot and it squelched nauseatingly. The pressure exploded. Every curse I knew flew past my lips, and even a few I made up on the spot. This was the Deities cathedral, but they hadn’t been there. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t!
“Kilco?”
There was too much blood at my feet. I spun around, fists clenched and ready to pounce on whoever it was, enemy or not. It was Pogue, his eyes tear-stained and hollow, yet the blue magnificent even in their darkness. I moaned, “What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here.”
“This is my home,” he replied quietly. I forced my fists down. I couldn’t punch him. He took my hand and wiped it against the material of his pants, “sorry you had to be here. See that.”
His voice had sounded so haunted like he’d aged a decade in a matter of hours. And it wasn’t his fault, not at all. I looked straight ahead towards the door, “it’s okay.”
“But it’s not,” he rubbed furiously at his eyes, “will you stay with me?”
Anytime. He need not even ask.
With my hand still in his, Pogue led me back into the cathedral. Nothing had changed, yet it appeared so foreign. Maybe it was the rising sun breaking through the cracks in the wood to dim the lights of the fae nursery. Maybe it was just me. The waterfall ran softly, too soothingly, as we sat at its edge. Pogue had gathered up Ilya’s weapons and placed them on the moulding. I reached for the blue sword, allowing my fingers to sink into its velvet.
That night was going to be yet another event that would split my life in two. Before Ilya and after… Something splashed in the water and a red ball of soaped fur peeked up over the pool’s edge with giant brown eyes. Pogue growled and balled up his fists. The squirrel’s eyes widened, and it scattered out of the pool before disappearing into the shadows. Pogue moved to stand, but I grabbed his leg, “don’t. It’s not hurting anybody.”
“He knows what he’s doing, and he knows he’s meant to mind his own business,” Pogue’s voice grew louder with each word, but he remained sitting, his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap. We sat in silence, the running water speaking what words couldn’t say. Birds swooped between the branches above, and small critters squealed as they scattered about in the new morning light. Where had they been before, in the dead of the night?
“Oh, here,” Pogue said suddenly as he pulled the Kaori dagger from his bandolier, “found this. Thought you’d want it back.” The blade’s warmth tingled my hand soothingly. I dropped it. It clattered to the floor and Pogue stared at it emotionlessly while wiping his nose on his sleeve.
“This was my favourite place when I was a kid,” he sniffed, “the water runs all the way from the nest, through the Armoury, and out to Lake Cygnus. It made me feel part of Ascot, even though I never left the tree. Made me feel safe,” It wasn’t too safe when Sedna was holding Ilya beneath the water, but I didn’t dare tell Pogue that. Not then, not ever. He took a shuddered breath, “anyways, that just something else taken by this war. Orden and my armourers used to tell me stories about the world, and I thought I was so lucky because I didn’t have to be out there. They never warned me that death doesn’t care who’s good, needed or loved,” he took the blue sword from my hands, “this sword is called Kazia. It belonged to Ilya’s dad. He was one of my armourers, you know?”
“No,” I said, still clasping the sword’s hilt.
“Yeah,” Pogue muttered and let go, “that doesn’t shock me. Ilya does…didn’t like talking about him, but he was a good armourer. A good person. And like Ilya, it’s my fault he died.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I said, unsure of which claim I was disputing.
“But it was,” Pogue said, “I was meant to be awake that night, meant to be on guard, but I fell asleep. When Bindy woke me I just ran. I didn’t even try and warn nobody. Just ran.”
“You were fourteen.”
Pogue sniffed and shook his head, “Doesn’t matter. I’m the Shield. To protect is my job and I failed. Now the Deities are punishing me for being a coward. Ilya is gone, Amicia hates me, and you likely think I’m bad too.” He continued to sniff, but it wasn’t enough to hide his tears. I looked down at my blood-stained hands. Why had nobody ever told me what to do? Comforting was as vital to my job as courage was to his. I scoffed. We were both losers. Rubbing my hands together, I placed them on Pogue’s cheeks. Tears dripped upon them and the dam that he’d hid behind broke. His sobs broke me in places I thought were paralysed, and my eyes began to swell. I shook my head. I hadn’t cried in four years and wasn’t about to start. No, couldn’t start or my eyes would never dry again. The sound needed to stop, and so, I pressed my lips to his.
What happened next was as horrible as I remembered. I wanted to cry out, demand that he stop, but was unable to silence that sick and brazenly curious part of me that craved to endure pain. And every second Pogue was inside was agony. He’d thrust forward, and my entire body would tense until my head felt faint. But still I bit my tongue. For Ilya had loved Pogue, and it wasn’t fair, so like a toddler admit a storm, I clenched my eyes shut and drifted far away. Tears wet my eyelids and I dared to peek at his face: red from crying and exertion, but serene as if in a state of ecstasy. That made the pain worth it. Pogue’s body trembled then, and he quivered, bringing an invasion of heat that made me tense further as he collapsed, panting heavily.
We remained like that for a time, positioned together as the world so inconsid
erably moved forward with no consideration to our wants or pain. But there was no more sobbing as dawn broke. I ran my fingers through Pogue’s hair, and he pushed himself up, fresh tears wetting his eyes as he looked down at my face. Then he was standing, replacing his pants and weaponry. He hesitated at Ilya’s weapons, fingers pausing over them before shuttering, then, without touching them at all, he stormed away.
I stayed long after the echo if the door closing was but a distant memory, too afraid to stand least that sticky feeling drip further down my legs. A fluffy face appeared over mine, chubby cheeks puffing out as the squirrel’s eyes narrowed as if judging. Moaning, I took the Erebus sword and rested its cold blade against my flushed neck. For hang me dead, even the local wildlife had better moral judgement than I.
Nobody explained why the mirrors had to be covered, but under the threat of high treason covered they remained in the three days following Ilya’s death. Not that Amicia would’ve known had the sheets been removed, having locked herself in her suite with Ilya’s uniform and refusing to see anybody other than Pogue or Heston. And given the rumours which plagued the morning, I doubted the later was welcome any longer. Doctor Kira had needed to sedate her.
Sighing, I looked away from the mirror and turned my attention back to the soaped floor. Kira had been using the task of biohazard clean-up as a passive-aggressive punishment since I was old enough not to mistake chemicals for fruit punch. The odour of congealed blood and ammonia didn’t bother me. It was just part of the job. Except the blood covering that particular floor was on my hands, but what choice was there? It wasn’t like the Ilvarjo could scrub the office clean themselves. Not when…
I threw down the spatula and stood, shivering in the artificially cold air while staring at my hands. Us in the know were forbidden to speak a word of Ilya’s death until Lady Ilana could be found and informed, but nobody seemed to know precisely where she was. It was bullshit. If she cared, she would’ve been there. If she cared Ilya wouldn’t still be laying in the same office he’d died in, already rotting. Oh, one of the court mages had been tasked with keeping the room cool, but the already humid forest was only getting warmer as Summer fast approached. With nothing but learnt magic and canvas keeping the elements at bay, it was becoming increasingly apparent that not every bruise marking Ilya’s skin could be blamed on Sedna’s rough treatment. I turned from the desk, not wanting to see him like that.
The two swords, Erebus and Kazia, sat abandoned on a cabinet in the corner, exactly where I had placed them that night after…well, just after. They were unmarked, beautiful, homeless. Where would they go now? Kazia was Ilya’s ancestral sword. Erebus was something else entirely. I unsheathed the sword, it’s unusual metal glimmering in the light. No part of me that believed in the tale of the soul living behind its glow, but I wanted to more than anything, for that was proof that there was something beyond the after.
Erebus slipped from my fingers as the door opened. Pogue didn’t appear to notice. As if in a trance, he shuffled inside, not even glancing my way as Erebus thudded atop the dagger belt. He simply walked to Ilya’s side and stared down at the desk chair, at the bloody pillow which had been placed back upon it, before covering Ilya’s hand with his own. He kissed each colourless finger and whispered “Hi.”
My stomach clenched. Pogue hadn’t spoken to me sinc—in three days. Each time we saw one another around camp his face would pale and off he’d run in the opposite direction before I could even call for him to wait. He blamed me for what happened to Ilya. That much was obvious, and I couldn’t begrudge him. I just hoped in time he could forgive me, but it wouldn’t be there in that office, with Ilya cold and still. It felt intrusive to stand there and watch where my presence wasn’t welcome, and since my nose was already broken, I didn’t want what had happened to Heston to happen to me. I started sliding my feet towards the door and managed to make it there unseen, but when I pulled the handle a loud creak broke the silence. I involuntarily cringed, but Pogue made not a sound. Maybe he was too dazed to hear. Maybe-
“What are you doing?”
-Not. I turned to face the music, but Pogue didn’t look angry. He didn’t look happy. He didn’t look anything at all. I tried to smile but could feel the lopsided angled expression that graced my lips instead, “Hello.”
My voice came out unusually high-pitched, and he frowned, “sorry, I didn’t see you-”
“That’s okay,” I said quickly, “I was only cleaning the floor. I’ll come back later.”
“Oh, right,” Pogue looked at the hand that covered Ilya’s, “that makes sense, but you don’t gotta go. It’s my fault you’re scared of me, so I’ll go. Sorry for getting in your way.”
It was my turn to frown. I wasn’t scared of him. I wasn’t scared of anything. He had been the one avoiding me. I shook my head, “I’m not going because of you, I just don’t want to intrude.”
“You could never intrude,” he said and looked back down. I glanced over at the blades one last time before tiptoeing to his side. Kira had stitched up the hole in Ilya’s chest and cleaned the blood from his face. If I didn’t look too closely it was almost enough to convince myself that he was only sleeping. Pogue gave me a small smile, “I like him like this.”
“Dead?”
Pogue chuckled dryly and shook his head, “He looks peaceful. More peaceful than when he was alive. He always looked agitated, or tired, or had no feeling at all,” he smoothed out a section of Ilya’s hair that was clumped by blood, “you know, I can count on my hands how many times I saw him smile. I wish we got to see him like this alive.”
“Yeah,” I muttered because Ilya didn’t look peaceful to me. He looked like he had suffered a slow and agonizing demise. I gently stroked his cheek, afraid his skin would break at my touch, but it was only cold and dead. It was wrong to touch him. I didn’t want to disturb him anymore.
“I heard you punched Heston’s face in,” I said to distract myself.
“I did,” Pogue rubbed his hands over his own face with a gravelly sigh, “he kept saying that keeping Ilya here until we find Ilana was a waste of energy, that we should bury him at the Armoury with everyone else. That was bad enough, because all the Ilvarjo are buried at the catacombs in Goonawarra Valley. Ilya deserves that more than anybody, but when Amicia told Heston that he said that we couldn’t sacrifice the camp security for someone who has passed away, especially not,” Pogue’s fists clenched and growled under his breath, “a blood-eyes. So I punched the old man in the face. I don’t feel bad about it neither.”
He chuckled again. The sound rattled through my cerebellum and directly into my core. I couldn’t believe he wasn’t crying. “How are you so accepting?” I asked.
The laughter died abruptly, and he looked at me, hand still cupping his mouth, “I’m not, I’m just over being sad. Ilya wouldn’t want us being sad.”
“At least he wouldn’t want you to be sad. He really loved you,” I said.
“And I loved him,” Pogue retook Ilya’s hand and kissed it “still love him. Now and forever. We were meant to save Ascot together. Now I don’t know who’s gonna do it.”
I turned to him and raised a brow, “what’s that supposed to mean?”
“What you think it does,” he shrugged, “I’m leaving.”
Leaving? leaving…The word replayed over and over in my mind, but I couldn’t make sense of it, the syllables seeming too big for comprehension, “but you’re the Shield.”
“Not a very good one,” Pogue snorted, “if I can’t save the one I love then who can I save?”
“But…where would you go?”
He sunk deeper into the chair and tossed the pillow to the floor like it was a shit encrusted sewer rat, “first to find the Morrigan and kill it, then who knows? Just far from Ascot.”
Leaving. Far from Ascot. The Shield? I shook my head, “but you can’t.”
“Sure I can. I’ve beaten it once before, I can do it again,” he glanced at me, and his eyes narrowed, “unl
ess you don’t think I should kill the Morrigan?”
“Of course I think you should,” I said, offended he would think I didn’t want to annihilate it as much as he did. Even more so. After all, I was the one who had witnessed what it had done in its entirety, “but who will protect Ascot if you leave?”
“Someone better,” he exclaimed and leaned over Ilya’s body, resting his head on the dead boy’s chest. He shouldn’t have done that, the wound beneath the linen shirt not sturdy enough to support too much weight without collapsing inwards, but I couldn’t move my mouth to tell him that. Pogue inhaled deeply and leaned up, “I’m no good at being the Shield, Kilco. I’ve done bad things in the Deities name, and they’re gonna keep punishing me for it if I stay. Everyone will suffer. That’s why I’ve gotta go. For Ascots’ sake.”
Ah. He was sad after all, just keeping it inside as irrational self-hatred that would eat him alive if allowed. I wouldn’t allow it. Not there, with Ilya not yet in the ground. I punched his shoulder, “Get over yourself, the Deities aren’t punishing you. You don’t do bad things, but you will if you don’t pull yourself together. Remember how upset you were when Ilya went missing? You didn’t run away then. You went to Lake Cygnus and defeated the Warlocks. You cleansed the water. Had you run away, all the villages would be dependent right now. Their lives would be ruined. You saved them. Does that sound like punishment to you?”
“Stop,” he groaned, “you weren’t there. You didn’t see what I did.”
“So tell me,” I said. Pogue sunk further into the chair, cupping his hands over his mouth while staring at Ilya. He drummed his fingers against his nose, and I huffed, turning towards the door, “fine, don’t tell me, just know that I think you’re a coward. A selfish coward who doesn’t deserve to be the Shield. Leave. See if I care. I’m not Ascotian anyway.”
“I made a deal with the Warlock.”