by Davis Ashura
She was almost to Rukh. His head was tilted to the side as though he were listening to something only he could hear. A look of grief and remorse flitted across his face before his face hardened with resolve. He drew a knife.
Jessira was too far away to make out any markings on the weapon, but she knew what it was, what it had to be. It was the Withering Knife. The sight of the bared black blade chilled her heart.
A single Balant stood between Jessira and Rukh. She drew Jivatma and strengthened her muscles. She ducked beneath the Balant's savage blow and rolled to her feet. She bounded up the dull-witted creature's club and leaped higher. Her jump carried her to eye level with the Chim, who hooted fear. He tried to slap her away, but it was too late for him. Jessira thrust her sword through one of the Balant's widened eyes and into the creature's brain. The elephant-sized Chim fell over with a moan and a thud.
The way to Rukh was clear.
Jessira reached him just as he lifted the Withering Knife to his chest.
“Don't do it!” she cried out, knowing what he intended.
Rukh looked her way. “I have to,” he said. Once more, regret flitted across his face. “I love you.”
He plunged the dagger into his heart.
SarpanKum Li-Grist stood beyond the gates of Ashoka's Inner Wall and watched the city burn. He looked into the midday sky where smoke filled the air. It was a black cloud that mingled with the black ravens that had come to feed on the dead.
An unkindness of ravens. That's what they were called. An apropos name.
The crackle and rumble of buildings burning and breaking overcame the cawing of the black birds and even the savage screams of the Fan Lor Kum as they clawed their way into the city.
Mother continued to swoop and soar, lancing the ground with lightning and bands of pounding golden light. She urged Grist to lead the Baels into Ashoka and take part in the massacre, but he refused Her command.
He held back the majority of his Baels, and they stood beside him, outside the Inner Wall. However, some of the Eastern brothers had heeded Mother's call and had entered the city with the other Chimeras. And what they would do within, possibly aid in the murder of Ashoka, was a stain on their souls that would never wash clean. It was a sin they would have to carry with them all the days of their lives.
Grist felt pity for them, even as their actions angered him to no end. Why had they gone into the city? Did bloodlust truly course so readily through the veins of the Eastern brothers?
“When Mother does away with Ashoka, what will become of us?” asked Li-Quill, a young Jut from the Eastern Plague.
It was Li-Dox, an even younger Jut who answered. “She will do away with us.”
Quill's face fell. “Will our kind vanish from the world then?”
“If Ashoka took in Li-Choke, then I would bet the other cities also took in our brothers from Continent Catalyst,” Dox said.
“But Choke had the friendship of two Humans,” Quill persisted. “The brothers of Catalyst had no one of Rukh Shektan's stature to speak on their behalf.”
“Perhaps not,” Grist said, “but Devesh speaks to us in the quiet moments when we seek to do what is right. I am sure there were Humans in those other cities who heard the Lord's calling. I feel certain that our brothers were granted asylum there.”
Quill still appeared uncertain, even unhappy. He gestured to the city with his trident. “How long do you think it will take Mother to finish destroying the city?”
“No more than a day,” Grist said.
“Then if we stay here, we have but one day left on this world.” Quill huffed in a mixture of remorse and melancholy. “We should strive for more.”
Grist was growing tired of the Eastern Bael's attitude. It reminded him too much of Li-Boil's selfishness. “Do you wish you had gone with your brothers into Ashoka?” Grist asked Quill. “Perhaps you think that Mother will let you live so long as you obey Her commands?”
The Eastern Bael startled upon hearing the question. “No,” he replied. “But should we not flee while we have a chance to do so? We may not get very far, but if Mother chases after us, then perhaps those Humans She told us about who left on their boats might yet reach their destination.”
Grist wanted to smack himself for not coming up with such an obvious plan himself. Of course they should flee. Those Humans who had recently left Ashoka's imminent destruction were likely still several days travel from their destination. They needed any distraction that would delay Mother's pursuit of them. And chasing after Her traitorous Baels, especially if they sped off in as many directions as possible, might just give those Humans the time they needed to reach safety.
Grist also wanted to smack himself for seeing selfishness in Li-Quill when the Jut was simply thinking aloud on how best to help those who needed it. It was heartening to learn that there were those of the Eastern Baels whose faith in fraternity had not been entirely dimmed by those like Boil or Torq.
“It's a fine suggestion,” Grist said to Quill. “One we'll act on immediately.” He squeezed the young Jut on the shoulder. “And I am sorry for speaking such ugliness to you.”
Quill ducked his head and nodded his acceptance. “I just wish there was a place we could go to be free of Mother's influence,” he said.
“As do I,” Grist replied. “Such a place will only be found when She finally meets Her demise.” It was then that something rising into the heavens caught Grist's attention. “Devesh be praised,” he whispered in awe.
Jessira gasped with horror. What had Rukh done? Why would he have stabbed himself with the Withering Knife? What could have possessed him to do something so terrible? Questions raced through her shocked mind as she raced to Rukh. She prayed that he was somehow still alive, but in her heart, she knew it wouldn't be true. Her beloved Rukh was dead.
She reached his side, and her grief became a flood when she saw his blood-soaked shirt and the gaping wound in his chest. Her heart broke when she noted his eyes closed in death and his strong, proud body grown as desiccated as a desert. His skin had been pulled taut, and the bones of his face stood prominent.
Jessira fell to her knees. Her sword slipped from her grasp. Rukh was gone. He was dead. Jessira clutched his body to her chest and sobbed with heart-wrenching grief. She no longer heeded the battle raging around her. She disregarded the Chimeras howling all about. None of it mattered. Not without Rukh. Anger made her scream to the heavens. Why had he killed himself? She was furious with him for doing so.
*He isn't gone,* Aia said to her.
Jessira looked sharply at the Kesarin. It couldn't be true. Rukh's corpse was in her arms.
*The Nobeasts understand. It's why they've withdrawn. They're afraid.* Aia said.
Jessira glanced around. It was as Aia had described. The Chimeras had withdrawn from Rukh. Their weapons were held low, and they shuffled about, muttering in uncertainty and fear.
Jessira didn't know what to think, what to believe. Rukh was dead. She held his lifeless body. There was no hope for him given the wound inflicted by the Withering Knife.
*Your eyes lie,* Aia said. *Don't use them.*
Jessira stared at the Kesarin, wanting to believe her.
*Trust me,* Aia urged. *Trust your heart.*
Jessira slowly closed her eyes and searched for the connection she shared with Rukh.
She gasped.
He was alive. Faint, tentative, and barely present, but there it was, his essence. Jessira didn't care to question the mystery of how it was that he still lived. She was simply grateful that he did. Her next thought was on how to to Heal him.
Before she could work out a solution, Rukh's body twitched, and Jessira's eyes snapped open. He twitched again, and Jessira settled his body back on the ground. She didn't know what was happening. Once more, he twitched and then . . . Jessira blinked, trying to sort out what she was seeing, trying to accept that whatever was happening was really occurring. Rukh's body had floated upward of its own volition. There was nothing a
bove or beneath it. His body rested on a cushion of air, ten or more feet above the ground.
Jessira rose to her feet and dashed away tears. Confusion wracked her mind. She couldn't even form the questions to understand what she was witnessing.
Rukh's body rotated in midair until he was vertical with his feet pointed toward the ground. His eyes snapped open, and they burned with a white-hot fire. His mouth slowly gaped as though he were crying in pain.
Jessira watched all this with her own mouth ajar. She looked sharply when she noticed movement to the side. It was the Chimeras. They had ceased fighting, all of them. Now they were pulling back, many yards away from Rukh. They pulled back once again, even farther.
Jessira turned back to Rukh. His white-hot eyes had cooled. They had became a pure blue, the purest color of the sky in the midst of a perfect summer day. Even the whites were consumed by the blue. A puffy, cotton-white cloud moved across his eyes, from right-to-left. His body twitched once more. Again it twitched, and then it began spinning. The spinning accelerated.
Jessira took a frightened step back as his body disintegrated. It was the only word that could imperfectly describe what she was seeing. Small flecks of his body, starting at his extremities, seemed to burn up in a blue flame, but when they did so, those glowing motes rose up to the sky. They didn't fall to the ground. More sparks rose. They flew higher, more of them, cometing into the heavens and disappearing. He was gone. Whatever he had become was now hidden by the smoke greasing the sky.
With all the injuries he'd suffered as a warrior, Rukh thought himself inured to pain by now. He had experienced broken bones, bruised organs, and torn muscles. However, nothing in his life could have prepared him for the torment of the Withering Knife. It was an agony unlike anything he could have ever conceived.
Nothing was spared. His body was wreathed in fire and anguish. Every nerve ending screamed. His mind burned in a fit of torture that never ended. The pain was a white-hot, filleting blade. It sliced thin strips off his flesh. It burned the tissue beneath. The agony didn't end there. It gripped his mind in a slowly congealing vice. It squeezed until nothing was left but harrowing misery.
He was torn into two, and those pieces torn into two. The tearing went on and on. He felt every rip, every shred. He became nothing more than a pile of fleshy bits. His Jivatma was stripped away. The perfect pool that might have been his soul was gone. Its absence was a wretched hollowing in his mind, an empty space where grace, love, and innocence had once existed. It was gone now. It was the worst suffering of all.
Through it all, Rukh clung to what was foremost in his mind. Jessira. His last vision had been of her terrified visage. His sight had been torn asunder shortly thereafter, and his eyes had boiled away to pus. Blackness ruled. Sound was lost. The world became a quiet place, viable only for the dead. All sensation was gone.
Rukh thought of others. His nanna. Amma. Jaresh. Bree. Aia. His family. His friends. His Caste. His people. Li-Choke. Chak-Soon. All who suffered and merely wanted to live as they wished. For them, he had to endure this pain. For them he had to be the willing sacrifice and serve.
Nothingness existed for an immeasurable amount of time.
But eventually, at the end of all hope, the ache of emptiness slowly filled. His Jivatma flickered to life. It slowly replenished, growing deeper, richer, purer . . . transforming. No longer was it a shimmering pond. Now it was a gleaming, depthless ocean. It ebbed with its own tide and waves lapped the shores of his body. The fragments of his flesh fell away, slowly subsumed into those mighty waterless depths until there was nothing left of him but Jivatma.
A single pinpoint of light became visible. It grew, becoming a golden glow. Sound came, the echoing notes of a mandolin and his favorite song. The fleeting feel of fog passed through him. He embraced the sensations, and they grew thicker, more weighty.
A rapturous laughter started from within the vaults of his mind. “You have survived the purification,” Linder said. His voice echoed louder and louder, becoming separate from him.
The sound merged with that of a singing light. A scent came to Rukh. It held the fragrance of purity and the touch of the sacred. It was a tolling note to which his Jivatma pulsed. It was a calling, a yearning that stretched out from the furthest heights—immeasurably distant—yet was close as a prayer. Rukh instinctively knew that the impressions originated from the singing light, and he tried to chase after it.
“It is not yet your time. Your work is not yet complete. Arisa still needs you,” Linder said. In their prior, brief conversation, he had sounded heavyhearted and tired, but now he sounded at peace. Rukh watched as the First Father ascended toward the singing light.”Search yourself, and you will find My final gifts,” Linder added. His voice grew faint as he quickly became lost to Rukh's senses.
With a pang, Rukh turned away from the singing light. It was one of the hardest things he'd ever done. He had wanted to go to it, to give himself over to it, but he couldn't. Duty came first.
Rukh faced the world. His sight grew clearer. A cloud banked his vision. The haunting strains of the mandolin faded. Harsh cries crowded the skies. The cawing of ravens. He realized that what he'd taken to be a cloud wasn't so. It was smoke, an acrid stench that might have caused him to cough, but he had no lungs. Heat, an updraft from a thousand fires, clawed for him. With the burning he had so recently experienced, the flames were as cold as a winter day.
He mentally inhaled and the world returned in its entirety. With a start, he discovered that he floated far above Ashoka. He witnessed a world that was more vibrant and more clear than Rukh could ever recall it being. Everything held a sharp edge—buildings, trees, roads, people. They all seemed outlined by a stenciling of bright light. Sounds were also more distinct. Cries, shouts, even whispers—Rukh could almost see their reverberations disturb the air. And past the wretched stench of smoke and despoilment, he tasted the sweetness of millions of roses in bloom. The single flutter of a raven's wings flicked across his sight. Time moved slowly. He watched a raindrop form in the heart of a cloud. It floated in the air and dispersed into vapor.
It was how the world appeared when he drew Jivatma, but he wasn't drawing Jivatma right then. He didn't have to. Not anymore. He was one with his Jivatma, and it was vast. His existence was changed. It was then that Rukh came to the final realization that his body . . . he had none. Instead, he had the appearance of a cloud. And lightning coruscated around him.
Jessira had watched Rukh's transformation in open-mouthed astonishment. What had happened to him? What had he become? Had he once again done the unimaginable?
“What just happened?” Jaresh asked, his voice filled with astonishment. He limped over with Sign by his side. Thrum trailed after him carrying an unmoving Dar'El on his back.
“I don't know,” Jessira said with a helpless shrug. She looked to Rukh's nanna. “Is he . . .”
“He won't live much longer,” Jaresh confirmed with a shudder. A tear leaked down his cheek and Sign held him close.
Shon settled on one side of Jessira and Aia on the other.
*It is frightening seeing you in so much danger,* Shon said. *I don't like it.* He pushed his head into Jessira's hand, and she stroked his forehead, the area between his eyes.
*I'm still with you,* Jessira said.
“Set me down,” Satha wheezed, arriving just then.
Li-Choke carried her, chair and all. “After the Chimeras left, I felt it only fitting that she be here when her husband is embraced by Devesh's love,” the Bael explained.
Lightning crackled, and Jessira's gaze shifted skyward. It wasn't Suwraith. Instead, it was a blue cloud with cotton-white wisps that descended lower. A tendril of its essence hovered over Dar'El. A gentle glow discharged into Rukh's nanna, and he groaned. Dar'El slid off of Thrum's back, but before he could fall, Li-Choke carefully settled him on the ground.
“I'm fine,” Dar'El said, waving aside the Bael's assistance. “I can stand on my own.”
Satha cried out in relief, and Jaresh carried her to Dar'El's side.
Jessira's attention, though, was caught up with the cloud that hovered over them. She gazed upon it in wonderment. “Rukh?”
From the cloud came a voice. It sounded like Rukh's, but it was so much more vibrant, so much more resonant and powerful. But at the same time, it was also softer and more humble. “I'm sorry I had to leave you,” the voice said.
“You will die!” a voice of grinding bones and ripping flesh cried out. The Sorrow Bringer, pregnant with puissance and ancient with evil, raced across the skies toward Rukh.
“This world does not need to be Your prison any longer,” Rukh said, seeming to entreat the Sorrow Bringer. “Let it go.”
The Queen snarled in answer and attacked.
Rukh—though he was transformed into something other than Human, something far more potent and powerful—was yet young to his strength. And even he, in this new, strange state, was but a shade before the Sorrow Bringer's might. She dwarfed him. As the Sorrow Bringer reached for him, Rukh did what was prudent. He fled, racing skyward.
Jessira urged him on as Suwraith gave chase. Run! Run as fast as you can, as far away as possible!
However, Rukh was a warrior from birth. He did not flee forever. Nor did he shrink from Suwraith's challenge. Instead, high in the heights above, Rukh halted his flight. He turned to face the onrushing Sorrow Bringer. His blue cloud shape coalesced into the appearance of a man. “It need not be this way,” he said, still sounding imploring. “Your pain can be Healed. The singing light is the way to forgiveness and grace.”
Suwraith laughed at his words. “There is no light,” She snarled. “And you will die like all the others who challenged My might.”
Rukh seemed to sigh. “So be it,” he said, sounding regretful. From his hand, he extended a sword, and he gestured to the Sorrow Bringer, motioning Her to come and face him.