by Liv Savell
The child was still, sunk into a heap of blistered skin. The flies, briefly disturbed, settled upon it once more, crawling amongst the red and black ruin. Still, they lived, breathing in shallow, gurgling gasps in between murmurs that were no longer perfectly distinguishable as words.
There was no sound other than ragged breathing and the clinks of Meirin rummaging through her pack. A useless endeavor. There was no medicine in the world other than a healer’s touch that might make a difference now, and none of them were healers.
They could provide no comfort, no easing of the child’s way, for they would die. There was no recovering from wounds of such magnitude. Not alone and helpless in this place. No choice at all, really, except to leave the child to suffer, or…
Etienne stumbled back, his wan face focused on the horizon rather than the child in front of him, unable to take in any more of the misery of it all. The warrior closed her eyes for a long moment, sick at heart even as her stomach turned with sudden nausea. She could not let this creature continue on like this. Die slowly, alone, and in unimaginable pain. Her hands trembled. Tears leaked slowly beneath her closed lids. What being could be this sick? Could cause such abject agony?
She took one breath, then another. She could not make her feet start moving forward, could not will them into action. But it had to be done. The alternative was impossible to entertain. Slowly, Delyth stepped toward the too-small pile of flesh. So little. How could a form that slight be asked to bear so much? It was unfair, unjust. It should have been impossible. What right had such things to exist in the clean light of an autumn sun?
Delyth kneeled down in front of the child, her tears coming freely now, and cupped the unburnt side of their face. One eye had swollen shut, crusted over by drooping skin, but the other, though unfocused, was a clear, unadulterated blue. The warrior fumbled at her waist a moment, then stroked the soot-stained cheek with her thumb.
“Go quietly, little one.” And she plunged her dagger up through their jaw and into their brain, killing the child instantly.
Slowly, Delyth lay the little, still form down and heaved herself back up. The world was blessedly blurred, made indistinct by tears. With a thump, Delyth’s beautifully crafted dagger hit the scorched earth of the road, and she stumbled out of the town in the direction of that great, smoking city.
⫸
Meirin’s eyes were wide but somehow dry as she looked over at Etienne, Delyth’s form retreating in the background. It had been the right thing to do, to spare the child hours of suffering. Who knew how much longer it could last in those conditions? It had hung on for days by the look of things—agonizing days.
It had been the right thing, but Meirin was selfishly glad she hadn’t been the one to do it.
Taking Delyth’s forgotten blade, Meirin gingerly wiped the child’s blood off with the underside of her own tunic. There had been worse on her before. She heaved her pack over her shoulder and nodded to Etienne. “Let’s go.” In the distance, storm clouds were gathering, ominous and reflecting her own swirling thoughts. They’d have a wet night, but maybe the storm would put out the fires.
Etienne straightened shakily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His face was tearstained from the force of his vomiting, and the tears mixed with soot, staining his features. He only nodded, putting his back to the carnage of a careless God.
Chapter XIX
Eleventh Moon, New Moon: North of Gwynhafan
Excerpt from the Journal of Etienne d’Etoiles
Eleventh Moon of the Year 1819, Central Thloegr
I have now been to a number of Thloegr’s towns and settlements, from the rough clans that cling to the mountains’ skirts to the walled cities of the plains and dozens of smaller villages in between. I have heard talk of peoples to the farthest reaches of our continent who live in the frigid lands north of the Brig’ian mountains and of sprawling cities on the sea. In the Moxous texts on the Wildlands, these places are described as dirty, as pits for pestilence and crime. I can now say, with confidence, that these works are inaccurate, born out of nationalistic propaganda and a lack of first-hand information newer than the Great War.
Etienne pressed a soot-stained hand to his eyes and tried to turn his mind back to his work, away from the images of death and fire that would not seem to release him from their grip. He had to keep writing, to do anything but relive that memory, or he would descend into insanity.
The people of the mountain clans are fierce, but they live in no greater filth than do Ingola’s small towns. In fact, the clans seem to do much better. Delyth has spoken of the free access to menders and education the temples here provide, of the trade between villages and clans. The small landowners of Ingola have no such opportunities.
What is more, the land of Thloegr is home to more races and cultures than all of Ingola. I have not met the people of the Eastern forest, but I know that the mountain clans worship different Gods and celebrate different festivals than those that live in Gwynhafan. Where the people of the plains are tall, dark-skinned, and gentle, the mountain people tend to be pale, stocky, and proud. Islanders are more prevalent here than in Dailion, as they seem to face less flagrant mistrust, though I must admit that even in this mix of people, they are still not regarded fondly. I believe that I have even seen hints of peoples from beyond the shores of this continent. My traveling companion, Meirin, favors the descriptions of those from the land of Tupa Gali, and in my time in Gwynhafan, I believe I came across those from Zolela or Araria. The only people that are more prevalent in Ingola are the Cabot, of whom I have only seen one in Thloegr, and Ingolans themselves.
I believe this diversity—
The fire popped and Etienne jumped, looking up from his work to scan the clearing. Delyth still had not returned, and Meirin stared morosely into the flames. All was still quiet.
I believe this diversity is the result of Thloegr’s tolerance toward outsiders. Its borders are open for trade or travel or whatever else. I posit that the coastal cities have profited from this easy attitude towards commerce, and it has undoubtedly allowed the trade between Thloegr’s cultures to thrive. This ideology will doubtless seem inimical to the Ingolan scholar, given Ingola’s care to remain untainted by other lands. I realize that this stems from a desire to keep our magical knowledge from the hands of other nations, but I cannot help but think we are cutting ourselves off from understanding as well.
I suppose, in the light of my recent journal entries, that this topic may seem trivial. What is the population of ordinary people to the acts of Gods? However, I must ask you to think again. There are no less than four distinct cultures within Thloegr—peoples with knowledge and belief systems and understanding. This is what stands to be lost at the hands of the Gods. These people don’t deserve to burn.
Perhaps, Delyth is wrong. It is not Enyo that we should fear most, but Mascen. This creature that burns and pillages as though it were nothing...
“Caerthleon is closed to us.” Delyth stood before the fire, a looming presence with her face flicker-lit and her wings large and dark behind her. She might have seemed ominous in another life. They’d walked away from the town until the setting sun made it too difficult to continue, but still, the smell of ash lingered on the air.
Etienne couldn’t quite bring himself to stir from his slumped position beside Meirin. Her arm brushed against him—for comfort, perhaps? In the aftermath of the ruined village, he couldn’t seem to care. His ability to feel had been overwhelmed, burned out. This was more bad news, another change of plans. He should feel frustrated. Angry. He should want explanations.
When no one answered her, Delyth went on. “I saw it, flying north of here. There’s a scar where Mascen’s cut off the roads leading in.”
Etienne did look then. “And you can’t fly us over it?”
“I could. But the city is his. I’m not sure if, once we entered, we could get free again.”
And if Enyo followed them in, it’d be like handing Alphonse
to him.
“What do we do then?” Etienne’s voice sounded exhausted even to himself. And for a long moment, neither of the others answered him. Delyth sat down. The fire popped.
“We can’t do this alone. We need help. Let’s return to Mynydd Gwyllt or Glynnford.” Meirin’s voice was as dead as he felt.
“And what if involving them only brings the village’s fate? What if The Mynydd Gwyllt is the next people slaughtered in fire? What if it’s Glynfford?” Etienne’s voice was raw. “We can’t bring anyone else into this.”
Maybe she wanted to argue, say something snappish or profound, but Meirin let her head drop, eyes closing. They were all too tired. “I don’t know,” the warrior finally murmured, rubbing her hands across her face, as if that would banish the day’s burdens. “I can’t think.”
For a time, there wasn’t any sound but the crack of burning logs. They hadn’t made dinner. None of them had the appetite for it. Delyth stood with the slow care of someone aching, as though she were infinitely fragile. “We’ll head towards the mountains. There are places amid the peaks where only the birds can reach.” The birds and people with wings.
She turned towards her tent, and Etienne let his head sag forward again, tired of holding it up. The mountains, the sea, the sky… What did it matter? None of those paths would get them any closer to saving Alphonse. Keeping the artifact away was, at best, a delaying tactic.
But what else could they do?
⥣ ⥣ ⥣
* * *
Sunrises were a common thing for a farm girl. All Alphonse’s life, she had risen before the sun, worked while the sky was still painted blue and purple, and greeted the sun when it finally peeked its warm head from the pillow of clouds where it rested each night. She had seen thousands of sunrises, but she always found herself pausing in her work to admire the next one—a gift, each day.
The sky this morning bled oranges and reds, making her eyes sting as she watched the world transform from one of blue to yellow—a new day. Perhaps that was why she liked the sunrise so much. It was the symbol of a fresh day. Hope.
For one moment, the world held its breath. Alphonse held her breath too. Then the cock would crow, and the day would demand her attention, and she would go on with her chores. But in that moment, the new day was hopeful and still. Quiet. Peaceful.
The crunch of hay behind her made Alphonse turn, not a glimmer of fear in her heart. Nothing would hurt her here. Even in the darkness, the figure was intimately familiar. Alphonse smiled.
“Hello.” Though Delyth had never seen her family’s farm, Alphonse thought the warrior looked as if she fit there. Maybe, wherever Alphonse belonged, so too did Delyth? The distance between them was too great, so Alphonse stepped closer, reaching her hand out for Delyth to take.
As their fingers interlaced, Alphonse tugged Delyth closer. Out of the darkness and into the light of the sunrise. She came easily, her calloused palm relaxed, trusting. The warrior was more than willing to be led by her little bird. And yet, there were furrows between her brows so deep that they might have been put there by a horse and plow. Her eyes seemed to barely hold up the bags beneath them, shot with exhaustion-red around the blue. “I love you,” she said, and there was an urgency to her words that had no place in the peace of pre-dawn. It was the rooster call, reminding those who heard it of the day.
Alphonse wanted to respond, to tell Delyth that she loved her too, but the tension in the warrior’s face distracted her. What was wrong? Why was Delyth so downtrodden? “Delyth?” Confusion colored Alphonse’s voice, and she stepped closer, inspecting each line, each blemish. “What’s wrong?”
“I—it’s—” She didn’t seem to know how to answer, as though the question was too big to grasp in its entirety. She took a breath that came out like a sob and tugged her hand away to press her palms into her eyes. The muscles of her jaw bunched. Her bared teeth clenched together between quivering lips.
Alarm painted Alphonse’s voice. “Delyth?” Stepping closer, she reached out to stroke Delyth’s shoulder or hold her hand. Only, it didn’t seem to be enough. She hesitated, useless until a memory bubbled to the surface of her mind. Long ago—a lifetime ago, Delyth had held her while Alphonse cried. She had smoothed her fingers through Alphonse’s hair and kept her close and safe. The echoes of acceptance and love warmed Alphonse’s soul, and she wrapped her arms about the warrior as tightly as she could. “It’s alright,” she murmured, letting her hands run up and down Delyth’s sides, “It’ll be alright.”
The warrior crumbled around her, bending to enfold Alphonse in corded arms. Her wings sagged over her shoulders, tips folding in the straw. Her body shook with sobs. “I’m failing, Alphonse. I still don’t know how to save you. People are dying. Children—”
Understanding bloomed within Alphonse. Enyo. The real world. This wasn’t real. This was a dream or the realm before death. The sunrises, the farm.
And she had no wisdom to give Delyth. She didn’t know the way out of the darkness. She didn’t know the answers Delyth sought.
Alphonse pulled away from Delyth, brushing aside the beautiful woman’s tears. She cupped Delyth’s jaw, brought her lips to first the left cheek, then the right. And her brow. And her mouth. They kissed, and Alphonse did all that she could to convey her meaning with that kiss. No matter what, she was with Delyth. The terrible things that could and would happen, the unhappiness that seemed to stalk them both, the good and the bad. Alphonse would be there.
“I love you, Delyth.” She smiled as she broke the kiss, tucking a stray lock of black hair behind the warrior’s ear. The feather braided there gleamed in the morning light. “I’ll love you always. Even if you don’t know what to do. Even if you never find a way to save me or stop Enyo. This world is a dark place, but—” Alphonse laid her hand against Delyth’s heart. “You are my light.”
Delyth pressed her palms to either side of Alphonse’s face, her own expression twisted, equal parts aching and earnest. She studied Alphonse’s eyes as though to memorize them, every last vein or fleck of color. She stroked her thumbs over Alphonse’s cheekbones, ran her fingers through the smaller woman’s hair. “I’m yours. No matter the oaths I have sworn or the space between us. I was yours the day we met on a half-abandoned track, and I will be until the day I die. I will not stop trying to save you.”
She knew it was true. Delyth was an unstoppable force. She would meet her goals or die trying. But Alphonse didn’t want to think of Delyth dying. She didn’t want to think of the world beyond, cold and cruel. And so far away now. A dim, distant place. For Alphonse, at least. Slowly, she let her gaze slip from Delyth’s, to the farm around them. Her family home, or something like it. She and Delyth might never have a home together, a life together.
But they could share this memory, at least.
“This is where I grew up. In Ingola. Before I went to Moxous.” It suddenly seemed small and dull, and Alphonse felt her cheeks warming. “I could show you if you wanted?”
༄
Once, Delyth had sat beneath a simple tent and told Alphonse that she wanted to know everything about the little healer. The memory made her smile, and the smile seemed to summon more tears from her eyes. She wanted to share something warm, to let go of the awful struggle that awaited her, if only for a time. “Yes, annwyl. Show me.”
Alphonse’s blush deepened at the pet name, but she slipped her fingers between Delyth’s, tugging on her hand to lead the way. The farm was stark in nature, not that different than Glynnford. There were fields of crops, a barn filled with hay and beasts, and a small house, modest by all comparisons.
One large room housed a wood-burning stove and hearth, a worn table with squat stools placed around its edge.There were two rooms with beds, one for her parents and one that Alphonse shared with her siblings.
Alphonse’s expression turned thoughtful, and she gestured toward a quilt laid across the lumpy, hay-stuffed mattress. “That’s the first quilt I made on my own.” The stitches
were not precisely even, the pattern simple. A child had made that quilt. Alphonse turned to look at the room, the walls unadorned asides from a small carving of Mother Agathi, veil over her hair, eyes lowered in demure adoration. “It seems like a small life now… Compared to Moxous or Thloegr.”
It was certainly a simple life. Simpler than life at the temple, with its training and rules, morning prayers, and different paths of service. Alphonse had been raised by a family, not a congregation, and yet, there was even less space here. “It seems honest, though. I would like to have a small life. With you.”
Suddenly hungry for touch, for comfort, Delyth pulled Alphonse into her chest. The warrior knew she was interrupting the tour, but there was an ache behind her ribs, an emptiness that only the warmth of Alphonse’s arms seemed to soothe. She let go after a moment to let Alphonse continue. Though she didn’t want to.
The healer hummed and tucked her hand into the crook of Delyth’s elbow. “You’d want to live here, with me?” Alphonse gestured to the ill-shapen bed and stark walls, painted white. “Wouldn’t it be more fun if we lived in a cave somewhere?” She snuggled closer to Delyth, bumping her hip against the warrior’s. “Only a fire and each other to stay warm?”
“I’d live here with you. Or in a cave. Or on an island smaller than this room with a single fruit tree I could tend for your meals. We could teach the birds to carry messages and the fish to dive for pearls so that I could drape your neck in stones half as precious as you are.”
Alphonse’s blush faded, her amber eyes widening as she took in the sincerity of Delyth’s words. “I don’t want pearls or fruit. Just you. Always you.”
“Always you,” Delyth echoed and pulled the little healer into the bed draped with a quilt she’d made when her hands had been small and clumsy. “Lie with me awhile.”