Revolutionary Veins

by Rey Balor

  She was the goddess of the New Ways, the destroyer of worlds and decider of fates.

  Claymore was a worshiper, a sacrificer. There was little for them to do but obey.

  The birthmates90 continued to whisper with one another as Claymore approached, but Khalsa immediately stepped in front of Roam. The birthmates and the captain stared at one another, and the seeds of understanding were planted. Each came from a vastly different culture, and while neither could truly flourish while the other continued, they met as warriors of equal value.

  “We aren’t here to hurt you,” Claymore promised. They lowered their voice. “I… I want to help, as much as I can. Senseless violence is not the way of Death. I know what it is to have a birthmate; all Aegis do. Please, follow my lead, and I’ll ensure no harm comes to you. We must navigate the will of the Queen, but I think I may convince her to imprison you as political hostages. It is your only chance.” Although Claymore could not promise freedom, they could provide the next best thing. An instant of dying impurely, damning the two in the afterlife, or a century of imprisonment, ensuring the two eventually received purity — it was not even a question. Claymore would rather suffer a cage than an eternity of pain, and they hoped the birthmates would accept such an offer as well.

  “Your very existence hurts me, you chained-folk. Look at what you’ve done to my spica. Look at what you’ve done to my people. Don’t fucking act so pure — as if you get to decide what’s about to unfold. The fate of the world is in our hands, not yours.” Khalsa’s knuckles were white with the force she clutched them, and she shook with the violence of her anger. “Now, stand back, the lot of you!”

  Claymore understood the undoing of one’s self, but duty came before all else, did it not? It was the pillar of the faith they had so steadily abandoned. Without that faith, who were they? Death’s righteous guardian turned foul. They had to capture Khalsa still; it was the only way to protect the spicas. In the depths of prison, the red-haired woman had cried for Roam. It meant something. Claymore knew this was what had to be done, no matter the Queen’s wishes. This was their duty.

  Khalsa waited until the captain was near enough to strike, but Claymore had expected this.

  Claymore was larger than her, with the strength of an adulthood of being well fed and the guidance of a force beyond brutality. The wolfling had to know she would not last in a fight. The wolflings had to know that their revolution was meant to last only a moment and that, in the end, all that made them up were blood and stories. Why did they not understand the carefully constructed workings of the world? Why did the Queen not recognize them either? Claymore stood alone in their resolution.

  Claymore did not bother to draw their gun, for the weapon was sacred and sacredness had shattered in the room. They simply twisted out of the way of Khalsa’s attack, grabbing hold of the length of her black hair. With a quick jab to her throat, they kicked against the back of her legs so that she fell to the ground. To her credit, she did not give up. She clawed her nails against the length of Claymore’s arm, drawing blood as she went. It was quick, it was brutal, but she was subdued.

  Claymore took a deep breath, looking toward Shishpar so that he might grab Roam. He was paler than they had ever seen, and his mouth gaped open, as if trying to shout a warning. Claymore’s hold on Khalsa loosened as they turned back to the other prisoner.

  The Queen stood behind Roam, and with an ease that spoke to the hours Claymore spent sharpening the blade, she plunged Oblivion directly into his back. His focus had been on Khalsa alone, and a noise of surprise left him. The weapon embraced him in a way that only a birthmate should, close and intimate in its strength — a mockery of love. Claymore could not be certain who screamed louder as his eyes dimmed: his birthmate or themself.

  Chapter 35: The Wilds

  “So rings the bell.”

  Death’s Lament, 60.98

  ARISTA:

  Light. Dark. Cold. Hot. Stars everywhere.

  Silence, silence, silence.

  SPICA:

  “I’ll destroy them all,” Olena had murmured to Illias, promising him. She suddenly understood why it was her destiny to kill the stars. It had never been about freedom; it had never been about fate. It was retribution in its purest form. The world had wronged her, and she would strangle the world. Only then could she truly be free — when those who caused suffering whimpered with suffering themselves. She had believed it, but now… Now, she could hardly recall the logic of reasoning.

  There was a flaming hole in Olena Rivers’ chest.

  She gazed at Illias — at that extension of herself — slumped onto the ground, and she burned. Anger had a distinct flavor to it. It tasted of metal on her tongue, of the color red, of fuel. Rage, however, had no flavor. It was blinding and tortuous, and Olena had forgotten that. In the ancient, beautiful structure of the Citadel, it seemed the Queens were reminding her. Nothing destroyed a woman more purely than rage, but she turned the lesson to her own advantage. Her body trembled from the effort of swallowing such a brilliant emotion.

  She slammed her fist into the captain’s cheek, not bothering to slow the force her anger gave. The war never left her, despite Illias’s efforts. It crouched in her heart, hungry and eager. The captain’s horror allowed Olena to recognize dimly that this was not the plan. Something was afoot, something was unfolding, some treachery was in place that shocked them all. The guard would die anyways. Olena didn’t care.

  The captain collapsed to the ground, reaching towards where Illias had fallen. They grunted under the weight of Olena’s fist and repeated the same words again and again, “I don’t know what happened. Check him! Oh, what has she done?”

  Olena didn’t hear. Rage was deaf as well as blind, the mirrored image of love. She smashed her fist twice more into the captain’s cheek. They did not fight back.

  Her heart didn’t burn for herself; it burned for the pool leaking from Illias’s form — for the injustices dealt to them again and again and again, and oh god, there was so much blood on her hands… There was so much blood on the ground, and she could not look. She could not face it. She could not face that smell of shit and copper, pervading her nostrils — oh god. She did the only thing she knew how: she punched the captain again and again and again, and oh god, if she had ended this years ago, the Citadel would be nothing but a dark memory… The captain’s cries were choked by blood again and again and again, and oh god, the crack of a nose sounded. She did not stop. She could not stop. She yelled instead. Louder than even the breaking of bones or her cries, she could hear her spica’s hope for peace and feel his fear as his hopes ripped him apart.

  She could hear his voice too: “In the wilds, we value life.”

  It had been true for so long.

  No more.

  She wanted to find each and every Queen that was or would be and rip them apart so that none could grow back from their remains. She wanted to choke them at their roots. She wanted to burn down every town connected with them, even as the ashes filled her. The flail of the comet, the people would call her. It was spoken in their origin stories: the spirits had flooded the world for the sins of a few, and Olena was on the path to do the same. She pummeled the captain, screaming as she straddled them. She swung her fists and wept. She couldn’t feel her fists. It didn’t matter.

  She owed Illias Rivers this.

  Olena’s love was a wildfire, and she couldn’t contain it. It was a selfish love, a consuming love, a love that went deeper than words. She would compromise what she had built for the Erie-folk a thousand times over if it meant retribution for them could be achieved. She would tear herself apart if it meant they could stand a little taller in that moment. She had to do this; she had to.

  She thought of Illias and Janelle and Neilson and Theo and Hops and all the rest, a world away. She could almost hear them whisper “you’re going to kill this one,” and she wanted to offer a thousand apologies. They burned up in her wildfire as quickly as they formed.

 
Good, she thought instead, but her fist hovered in the air above the captain instead of connecting once more. The tang of her blood joined with the tang of Illias’s own. Her knuckles were shattered, cracked, red, red, red, but for the first time since the two babes had been brought together on Blue’s Night, red would not appease her. No, it was not the captain of the guards that was deserving of her wrath, and as quickly as the thought came to her, her gaze sought the Queen.

  Olena could not make herself stare at him any longer, crumbled like the dolls they had made together as children. She could not force herself to breathe deeply for fear of the scents that would overwhelm her. She could not make her heart stop trying to reach for his, not while the emptiness that flooded the world was too crushing for one to handle alone. How did those born without spicas do it? How did solitary stars continue to shine?

  The Queen did not smile. There was no pleasure in the destruction she wrought, and although blood coated her pretty clothes, she had removed herself from the scene as Olena released her anger. With a gesture, another woman was dragged in, and although she may once have been beautiful, dirt and disease clung to her body. She brought the sharp scent of prison with her. Half-unconscious, the guards deposited her in front of the Queen.

  “I am sorry for how you must feel, wolfling,” the Queen began, and truly, her voice was sorrowful. Olena could not hear it; she heard nothing but the lonely drum of her heart. “I needed to sever your connection, but it’s still raw, isn’t it? You still search for his presence, don’t you? Before he perished, we made certain modifications to give us a few moments. Meet the Lady of Stone. She will be assisting us.”

  Olena opened her mouth, but only a hoarse groan erupted from her.

  “Yes, I quite understand, but I need to do this,” the Queen answered. “Birthmates are not only psychological. It’s deeper than that. I need to control it, contain it, relish in it. It is the one uniting factor amongst both wolflings and the civilized, and I intend to dominate this primal force. Birth is the beginning of Life.” A man brought out a strange machine of metal and wires, and it sizzled with electricity. “I need to deliver upon my promises, and I think I’ve figured it out. It is so simple! Even as you bloodied my love, all I could think was how near to the truth I was.” Olena stared, unblinking and burning still. So like a doll the Queen was! With blonde hair curled so perfectly around her, with cheeks the faintest of pink, with lips pursed in delicate consideration — it would have been so easy to break her, if only Olena had thought to move quickly enough. The Queen continued as if she did not even consider Olena a threat. “I’ve never successfully forged the birthmate connection, but I believe I’ve finally figured it out. It’s so obvious, I am only amazed that I had not considered it sooner, you see. You have to die to be born again.”

  The Queen brandished a small, wand-like object from the strange device, and blue lightning crackled at the end of the metal rod. So focused was Olena on the woman’s demonstration, she did not notice the three other guards until they were gripping onto her once more, dragging her forward. She was given a glimpse of Ranger in the shadows of the room, but there was no smirk on the woman’s expression now. She sat on the ground with her legs pulled against her chest, rocking slightly and mouthing something to herself again and again. Olena felt no pity. There was nothing left in her to feel, but as the guards shoved her, she spit at them still.

  “You’ve already killed me. You’ve already killed Olena Rivers.” Saying her name was the last rebellion she could offer. The Queen leaned close, the blue tipped wand humming as it was brought nearer to the free woman.

  “Then we will kill you again,” the Queen declared.

  The Queen pressed the end to Olena’s chest, and her body convulsed under the electricity. It was no longer just her mind that burned. The skin where the voltage struck bubbled beneath the heat. Her heart leaped. Her ears rang. Her heart stopped. Her ears went quiet. For a moment, she believed herself dead. For a moment, she was right. There were no more thoughts, only unconsciousness. A hand was extended to her. A woman’s smile floated. Light. Dark. Cold. Hot. Stars everywhere. Silence, silence, silence.

  Neither spica had died a pure death, and their revolution took a final breath as she did.

  The Queen turned her machine to the half-aware Lady of Stone, but before she could press the electricity against the other’s skin, Ranger rushed forward and rammed her shoulder into the Queen’s stomach, tackling her. Still bound, she took the wand and looked toward Olena.

  “I must surely hate you.”

  Ranger pressed it against herself. Her teeth clamped together as the voltage traveled the length of her spine. She slumped beside Olena, and they were like equals in their unconsciousness — in their deaths. The Queen stared at the pair, and there was nothing but venom in her voice as she called her remaining Aegis forward. The captain lay unconscious on the ground, wheezing through a broken nose. All moved around them. One of the guards handed the Queen two syringes. It no longer mattered to whom the procedure was done; it simply needed to be done.

  Together, wolves and royalty would conquer life entirely.

  Two gasps sounded in unison as the Queen pressed a needle into each of the women.

  When Olena was reborn, the first thing she tasted was ice — a daughter of winter, returned once the earth stopped warming. She opened her eyes, and the world shifted in a way she could not understand. Colors swam around her. Nothing came into focus. Her head ached, and a burn blossomed over her chest. A blink, and she was reminded of what she had lost. Another heartbeat a body away, and she was enlightened as to what she had gained.

  In horror, she turned onto her side and vomited up the meal Hops had so carefully prepared an eternity ago.

  Beside her, Ranger clutched onto her head. She let out a groan as she rolled to face Olena. Her new spica. She opened her mouth to speak, but the pain still wracked her body. No… Olena should not feel concern over this, but there was panic at the pain she saw. Ranger blinked twice and laughed. There was more life in her than Olena had ever seen before. It sickened her, and she vomited again.

  Attempting to sit up, Olena came across a far worse sight: she saw Illias, eyes wide and hand outstretched. For what he was reaching for, she could not say, but disgust rolled through her again. She had betrayed him in the most intimate way; she had been torn from him in the cruelest fashion. A thousand impure deaths did not compare to the pit she was being dragged into, and tears fell. Ugly sobs shook her. He waited in the stars for her, a half-finished constellation that would never be complete. What had they done! It was impossible. It was worse than impossible. Olena wanted to die. She crawled over to him, hoping he would move, hoping she would feel his heart again. She felt only Ranger’s laughter. She buried her head in her hands.

  “No, no, no,” she moaned.

  What did it make her? She could not return home, half a person. She could not look her parents in the eyes and tell them what had occurred. Her revolutionary veins had bled through, and she did not know how to exist in this half-form. She didn’t want to! They should have killed her as they had him. Her dear Illias. Her sweet brother. Her spica. Half of her soul. Her breathing became shallow. Her face contorted in shame.

  “You survived,” the Queen breathed, staring between the two women. “I see how your body shifts to protect her, even without your knowledge. Oh, this is truly incredible. It seems as if the Lady of Stone saw the worth of a failed experiment rightly, Ranger. We have much work to do if we’re to turn you into an asset, wolfling. I do apologize for the pain you’ll have to endure for it, but progress can only be forged in the aftermath of pain. You will be the shining example of the New Ways, and with your help, we’ll spread across the world.”

  Olena was a broken soul. She gladly welcomed the blackness of unconsciousness that swarmed her. It was comforting in the way that the brightness of reality could never be.

  Chapter 36: The Citadel

  “I, alone.”

  D
eath’s Lament, 17.30

  Claymore awoke a day later in the rarely used hospital wing of the Citadel.91 They had only passed the area during patrol, but it looked vibrantly different from the inside. The windows were darkened from heavy curtains that smelled more of mold than the promise of sunshine, and the beds lining the walls were empty and cold. It was a place for those near death, and the only hint that others had recently lived within its walls were the stained sheets in a pile by the entrance. This was where the Lady of the Pillared Land had come for treatment for her leg; this was where the unworthy came in shame — a place to neither commit to life nor death.

  Claymore’s face remained sore, and they could not see from one eye. It felt as if it was missing altogether, stripped by the anger of a woman who had lost half her soul. They felt no bitterness toward Khalsa. Understanding formed in Claymore’s chest instead. It was a stewing thing, this emotion, and once it began, there was no slowing the rate at which it flowed.

  Every time they took a breath, every time they were reminded of the life so prevalent in the Citadel, they saw Alycia plunging Oblivion into the wolfling’s chest. Their sword, their holiest of relics, stained forever by an impure death of one who did not deserve it. Defenseless! Unarmed! Nothing more than a sacrifice that was not asked for! Death would be ashamed to take him. Even the gun resting beside Claymore seemed tainted by the act. When they tried to whisper a prayer, they heard nothing in return. The world turned away from them, all because of a woman who tried to rewrite it.

  The emotion growled, as loud as any of the wolflings. What was it? Freedom, those people would call it, but Claymore had never known such a word. Betrayal, their fellow Aegis might claim, but the other shields had stood complacent in the attack. To go from a life of neutrality to a tempest of anger, confusion, hurt, and pain left Claymore exhausted. Everything was loud; everything caused their headache to worsen and their panic to grow.