Revolutionary Veins

by Rey Balor

  Twenty-two years would pass before the sky would come alive again, with color bright enough to pierce the veil. Blue’s Night was a distant memory; it was Red’s Night — and what was the most familiar red thing in their wild world? The faint glow of sun, blood, meat: it was the sign they had looked for. Twenty-two long, cold years would pass before Illias and Olena walked at the head of an army, pointing to the sky with grins on their faces and a war pounding in their hearts.

  THE COSMOS

  2522 years after eruption

  The earth hung below him, illuminating blue light from the glow of a star more than ninety million miles away. The only thing separating him and the cosmos, him and the very structure of the universe, was his suit. It monitored his heart rate, the sound beating steady in his ears, and the stale smell of recycled air that passed through the suit was the only thing keeping him alive. For as beautiful as the space around him was, it was a deceptive beauty; he had prepared for this. His entire existence centered around the purity such deception would bring him in death.

  A tether attached him to the small ship, but he stretched it as far as it would go, desperate to pull himself away from the gravitational tug of the planet. He had been trapped on its ground for as long as his existence had been, but finally, he was greater than his fragile form. Finally, he could view the universe as an equal.

  He floated.

  It was not as peaceful as he had imagined. Between the thrum of his heart and the glow of the earth, it was lonely more than anything. The oxygen would last him another hour at the most, but for now, Death remained as quiet here as it had been in his home below. Silence settled around him, far more comforting than the presence of any of his friends, and he closed his eyes, allowing it to drift with him.

  Death was not hungry here, but it would eat nonetheless. He would be certain of that. It abandoned them on earth, but he sought it out. It would give him the end he deserved — the exaltation his soul begged for.

  He floated.

  When his eyes opened again, the Land of Opportunity below was being lit by the first rays of dawn. It gleamed and glittered, exactly as was promised, and he tried to imagine the people awakening there. The Queens would be sitting on their thrones soon as their shields scurried around them. Serving girls and boys would keep their gazes to the ground, ignoring the splendor of the women. Even the streets of the city would buzz with life. He could almost, almost see it, but in the end, he could picture no one; the past failed to have any meaning in the silence.

  Blackness stretched in every direction, but in the distance, locked into the same orbit as he was, there laid a collection of scattered objects. They looked like old satellites, but those had broken up decades ago, scattering to the very ground they were built from. He angled himself and propelled forward, and when the tether around him tried to hold him back, he unclipped himself from it.

  The barrier between him and the cosmos grew thinner.

  As he neared the objects, a morbid curiosity overwhelmed him. There was nothing mechanical about them; they were as organic as him. He counted thirty bodies that floated in eternal slumber, but their orbit stretched farther than he could see in both directions, with an indecipherable amount of space between them. Earth had never been famous for its ring system, but the bodies seemed uncaring of such news — they formed a more glorious ring than even Saturn could offer.

  The closest one came into grabbing distance, and he gripped onto an arm. The woman’s lips were curved upward in a smile, but the faint blue tint of her skin showed her for what she was. No helmet covered her, and as he glanced closer at her suit, it was from a time long before him. Beep, beep, beep: he could hear the rate of his heart jump with every moment he lingered. Tendrils of red hair reached for him, and he released his grip on the corpse.

  “Hand of devotion, spirit of Death, accept my offering,” he whispered in prayer.

  He floated beside her, his ship long forgotten.

  “I wonder if I’ll join you here or burn up in the atmosphere,” he continued. Time was a difficult concept to grasp, even on the ground, but it made no difference now. It could have been ten seconds or ten hours since he last spoke; it mattered little to either of them. “I was told my father burned — that he burned so brilliantly, they mistook him for a comet. Blue’s Night, they called that day. I’m a little wary to try to live up to the expectation. I’ve never had it in myself to be a folk legend.”

  She blinked.

  He screamed, but when locked into orbit, where could one go? He spun slightly as he flailed, and she continued to stare back, a spark entering beneath the film of her eyes even as her skin glittered with cold. Life came to her slowly, as slowly as Death came to him, yet it came all the same, beginning with movement in her fingers and ending with that small smile on her lips growing wider.

  Perhaps Death was speaking to him after all.

  She whispered, voice piercing the vacuum of space: “How sad, how sad, how sad. A man today, a ghost tomorrow.” Turning her body towards him, she slowly unbuckled one of her gloves and let it drift away. The other followed soon behind. “Ghosts are so cold, but we can keep you warm. We can keep you safe, as safe as the sun keeps its planets. You’ve been lonely for so long, my ghost. How do you take it?”

  Her mouth did not move as she spoke, but he heard her nonetheless. It was music, something he had not listened to since he was a boy in his mother’s home. She had cradled a piece of an old record to her chest and, through her lullabies, told him of a world he had only glimpsed in books, and the woman’s words echoed of that time long ago. His heartbeat slowed; his gaze was glued to her.

  “We are blood and stories; we know that which you seek. Oh, shine for the glory, and let your dull heart speak.” Her words shifted, becoming more and more of a song, and she grabbed hold of his hand, slowly unbuckling his glove too. Whatever protest he had died in his throat, and a burning chill crept up his limbs. His forehead fell against the front of his helmet, as if he could not get close enough to her. He went to brush his fingertips against her cheek, and her smile brightened in encouragement at the action. When his skin touched hers, however, his hand chipped away — diamond hitting diamond — and he felt nothing. “You’re so very near, so far. Come to me, my dear, my star.”

  He knew what he had to do, but his hands were cold stumps he could no longer control. He understood he would be quick to follow her out of this life, as unconsciousness lurked behind his eyelids. He mumbled for help, and she gave it without question. His suit beeped as she removed his helmet, but the sound was quickly swallowed by the blackness.

  He smiled and joined the ring of ghosts around the planet earth, but gravity was greedy in its love. Every revolution around the planet brought him closer to its surface, until he was breaking the atmosphere as well. His remains glowed red in the sky as he moved from ghost to legend. Red’s Night, he became, and as the final pieces of him disintegrated across the sky, the ring around earth continued on in its steady certainty.

  Chapter 1: The Citadel

  “Energy is neither created nor destroyed; there is only renewal.”

  Death’s Lament, Verse 3.2

  As custom dictated, they mourned for five days. Each of the Aegis took a temporary vow of silence for their fallen captain, but it was not out of grief that their lips fell quiet and their eyes were cast low. He had died in the purest way imaginable — sent to the cosmos in a glorious finale. No, it was not sadness that stilled them; it was for meditation that they did not speak. In the days following such an offering, Death would be lingering close to them, and if they were silent enough, perhaps they could hear its guidance.

  Claymore found the lack of speech comforting. The city was still in a buzz over the launch of the rocket, but their world had never been the place Claymore called home. Sanctuary was in the wise gaze of the Queen of Stone, the soft flush in the cheeks of the Queen of the Summer Isles, the kind smile of the Queen of the Range, the shiver of respect that traveled down t
he shield’s spine in the presence of the Queen of the Pillared Lands, and the veiled coolness of the Queen of the Vanguard. The five women made the points to a star that Claymore had come to age under, and any place outside of the Citadel felt empty.

  Claymore folded their large hands together, mouthing words that their captain had taught each Aegis. Their hair had been completely sheared for the circumstance, and they intended to keep it that way. Pride was the seed of all problems, and if they fully rid themself of care of appearance, they would serve the next captain all the better. Dust grains itched their exposed skin from lack of trips to the bath house, and even their chest plate of armor5 was allowed to grow dull in the days following the captain’s end. Instead of causing them to slouch in shame, it only made Claymore’s broad shoulders straighten in assurance that they did precisely as Death would want.

  The Aegis continued their duties in the five days of silence, but every changing of the guard was marked by a show of sacrifice. It began with burning of food, but with the passing days, food gave way to blood spilled from self-made cuts until even that was not enough. The shields brought forth small animals in offering next, and it was only on the eve of the final day that they glimpsed an insight into Death.

  In the flickers of the flame, the remains of a lamb blackened, and the five Aegis stood around the pyre, staring even as their eyes ached from the brightness. When the voice came, there was no magic to it, no sudden loud noises, no enlightenment. It was a feeling that echoed in the depths of their souls, and each member of the Aegis felt it reverberate through their weapons — none more than Claymore. Claymore’s hand clutched the hilt of their arming-sword tightly, and even as the others glanced away, they continued to stare.

  “It says…”

  We are all stars.

  Maul, the largest of the members, seized suddenly, and he gripped onto Claymore to keep from falling so heavily onto the ground. His jaw locked, and each of the other shields took a step forward to hear what message he would bring. It was no coincidence that Claymore felt Death’s hymns first; it was no coincidence that the effects of such music were bringing Maul to his knees. Even as he held onto Claymore, the shield did not look away from the smoldering pyre, and it was this discipline that made the man’s next words so unsurprising.

  “It’s chosen the next captain,” he panted, forcing himself to continue despite the shaking in his limbs. Claymore finally closed their eyes, but the image of the fire remained. “Claymore’s been chosen.”

  It is selfish to worship the things we claim to be, but we are selfish creatures. Remember that, and rise above it.

  They opened their eyes to a new life, to the title of captain.

  Maul slumped into unconsciousness as soon as the announcement was made, and the nearest Aegis to him, Falchion, knelt beside the man to ensure his safety. When the worst of the seizes brought Maul so close to the one they served, it was always Falchion to return him, and Claymore nodded in gratitude. The gesture was for more than taking care of one of the group’s own; it was for acknowledge of the role that had been decided for the new captain. In answer, Falchion made the sign of the star against his chest.

  The Aegis were guards who knew the danger of powerful titles among them, and therefore, tradition had Claymore humbly kneel at the feet of those under their charge. Maul made a mark of the star against the cold, alabaster floor, but Shishpar stepped forward to draw the symbol atop Claymore’s head. The bristle of stubble tickled as his thumb made the shape on their scalp, but no hint of emotion made its way onto either’s features. Glaive drew the symbol on Claymore’s neck, and as the newest member of the guard, it was her that said the prayers.

  “Hand of devotion, spirit of Death, we hear your choice, and we ask that you accept our own.” Fingers drummed along the handle of her weapon as she recited the words. Shishpar nodded encouragingly, and Claymore stood as she continued. “The dawn of a new era approaches, but we shall follow your commands. Through the five principles, we follow you; through Claymore, we hear you.”

  Claymore had never desired the position — desire cracked the first principle of the Aegis, neutrality, told in the scripture of Death’s Lament. In the dim remains of the pyre and with the whispered prayer resting upon them, however, it was easy to forget that. If their home was in the five Queens, their joy came from the acceptance of this new title. Captain of the Aegis: a force of protection, of service. They brought out their arming-sword6 and pistol7 before them to be prayed over. Captain of the Aegis: a blessing to the common folk and royals alike, a crusader designed in the light of tradition.

  The dawn of a new era drew nearer, and it began with Death smiling upon the Aegis.

  Chapter 2: The Wilds

  “Thou shalt not suffer a wolf to live.”

  Death’s Lament, Verse 25.8

  ARISTA8:

  Illias sensed a revolution churning in the air around the camp. He felt it the moment his eyes popped open and he reached for the spear by his side. Even the weapon itself was a form of revolution, carved from bone and death in a way nothing ever should be, and he knew the world around them could sense it. The fire had dwindled low in the night, but it was neither the crackle of flames nor Olena’s breath beside him that startled him from sleep.

  The dark sky above was as dark as it had ever been, but he glanced toward it all the same. It was a rare occurrence to see a comet, and although Illias had never considered himself a lucky man, what else could he call it but luck upon seeing such a brilliant sight in the days they marched to defend their homeland? Even after that twinkle dimmed below the layer of ash, he couldn’t help but stare toward the sky in hopes of catching another glimpse. It had become something close to a nightly ritual for him, and his spear fell beside him so that he might drop to his knees in humble admiration.

  Long strands of dark, brunette hair fell to his shoulders as he tipped his head back, and his hazel irises did not shift from their stare. Had others awoken, their attention would immediately fall to his slim, able silhouette highlighted in the early morning skies — to the quiet strength present even from a distance, the stubble that crept along his chin, the crook in his nose that hinted it had been broken before, and the bare feet and bare, white chest that seemed so natural among the wood. The air smelled of dirt; he smelled of dirt. The ground felt of earth; he could feel it between his toes. If there was ever a time for the cosmos to join in their connection, it would have been then, when Illias Rivers heard man and beast breathe as one.

  As if sensing the bright spark of his hope, Olena sat up abruptly nearby. Despite the darkness, her gray eyes shined, matching the very sheen of the dust above them. “Day three after Red’s Night, eh? I wonder if that’s what it was like to see the stars every night.” She left her own weapon untouched, and she pushed back the warmth of her blankets to kneel beside him. Her frizzy, black hair draped around her, and she continued to shove it aside, an old annoyance that would never go away.9 Beside her spica, she was nearly as tall, nearly as strong, nearly as bare, but there were few other similarities between them. Both had fuzzy brows that furrowed when concerned, but she was thicker than him, with a snaggle-toothed grin and long, straight nose that showed she had never allowed herself to be caught by surprise in a fight. Where the morning light turned him pale, there was a deep olive tone to her exposed form. They seemed even less similar beside one another as each tried to squint above. It did not matter, for they were equal beneath the invisible stars.

  Olena continued, unperturbed. “The others spoke about it like they expected it to happen. Bunch of bastards, I thought, but the proof of it was up in the sky. You were first to see it, far as anyone can tell. You know what that means?”

  “Do you want me to guess?” he returned, giving her a look that suggested exactly what he thought. The expression caused her to snortle, and she shoved his arm affectionately, sending the steel bangles around her wrist jangling.10 She hoisted them up her arm to keep them snug once again and went back to e
yeing him, those large brows raised expectantly. The glow of the comet would not leave Illias, and he could not fully help the smile that came to his face during talk of its ghostly image. “Sure. It’s a prophesy, and everyone you ask will say it stands for something different. Da said it means war, Ma said it means peace, and Theo said it means a delicious stew for tonight’s meal.”

  “It means there’s a new beginning ‘round the corner, Il. I’m going to wake the others. It’s close enough to morning that we can head out.” With a righteous yell, she wasted no time sending the rest of their small camp scattering to attention.

  It was with a ritualistic ease that they ate their breakfast and readied themselves. By the time dawn broke, their arms were covered in temporary paintings of past victories, and their eyes were marked with smeared kohl. They dropped their title of Erie-folk and took up the mantle of wolflings.

  The camp of soldiers was on their land again, and they would give them a show of courage in return. It was all they could do to gain an equal footing during this invasion of the five false Queens. Unholy deaths, destruction of lands, brutal takeovers — the Queens ravaged the wilds in search of something unnamable, but the Erie-folk were just as wild as the world they lived in. If they could not stop the bands of fighters sent their way, the Erie-folk would be remembered all the same, and their actions would be blazed into the constellations. There was no hesitation as they stepped into the world of these strangers; they fought for everything they were.

  Olena’s arrow was fast and true when they broke into the enemy encampment, and the point carried more strength behind it than any sword or ax would. The man it hit did not simply crumble to the ground; he was carried back a foot, trying to grasp a mere concept of the thing that struck him. A horn blasted, and the entire camp came alive. It only made Olena’s grin grow broader, and she rolled to her feet, the gray wolf skin cloak making her a fearsome sight to behold. Her hands were as muddy as paws, and the paint smeared on her cheeks and arms made her appear as if she was covered in blood. Illias was beside her as she rose, his own wolf skin black as the night sky.