Revolutionary Veins

by Rey Balor

  They did not want visitors, but they could not stop one from approaching. They expected the golden aura of Alycia, almost cruel in its beauty, but it was Shishpar who entered the room. The click of his heels was the only sound to echo off the high ceiling, but there was no weapon in his hand — nothing to signify he was an Aegis at all. Instead of laughter lines, there were grim markings along his face, and they recognized their sorrow would only deepen when he spoke.

  “Report?” Even Claymore’s voice was a croak, and they flinched at the sound.

  Shishpar merely pursed his lips and bowed his head in silent prayer.

  “If Death gives you word. Please… What did it say?” Claymore begged.

  “You cannot hear her? She is loud as of late, echoing off these walls. She screams, and we do not sleep for it.” He ran a hand through the thick of his hair, heaving a sigh. “She has grown stronger, and she has torn us apart, Claymore. For a millennium, we have been the protectors of the Old Ways, and in so short a time, the Old Ways have faded into history. Tomorrow, history will be burned in a great bonfire, and all that will be left are blood and stories. A year from now, even those will not remain. You cannot make your home in the flames, Claymore.”

  Death had not abandoned them, as so many liked to claim. Death had merely been waiting for its chance to return. It would only return to those loyal, to those who had not broken their vows, to those who were not Claymore. No, even the name Claymore was wrong; they did not deserve to carry the true name of an Aegis. They had been stripped of title and returned to what they had been in the moments after Dove’s death. They were a rat without a den to call their own. Athol Pen — beggar, broken, defeated.

  “The others?”

  “Maul is dead. He claimed you for a sorcerer and the Queen for the one who gave you such powers. He saw Death telling him to follow you, but he believed it was you who had given the image. The Queen… You did not see the experiment. She created birthmates, Claymore. Somehow, someway…” He shook his head. “It makes no matter now. After it was completed, she ordered Maul to take the new birthmates away. He made a strike at her instead. Glaive stopped him.” He had been stopped in the only way the Aegis knew how. With a strike to the leg, their opponent fell, and with a strike to the neck, they were incapacitated; Claymore could almost see it unfold. “He did not die right away, but he was given the pure death of fire this morning.

  “Falchion fell down in prayer, but what could he do? Maul was in the wrong, so he made the sign of the star and abandoned his post. I have not seen him since. Glaive has always been in agreement with these New Ways, so she stays with the Queen now, awaiting your instruction. She has already begun a list of possible new Aegis, but they are few. Caliana disappeared yesterday — no one knows where. There is greater unrest than there has been before, both of people who wish to protect what few birthmates remain and people who want to claim what the Queen had promised. It is too much in too little of time. The star is dead.”

  Claymore closed their good eye, not wanting to hear the rest. They thought of their initiation as the captain of the Aegis: how they had stood tall before the whole of the Citadel and said the words that bound them to the five principles — to the five points of a star meant to shine across them all. They made the vows and stood five days on the altar to prove themself worthy of it, but how quickly they crumbled! A life promised to tradition left room for snakes to slither in.

  Was that what they believed of the Queen — that she had slithered into the garden that had been crafted by the Aegis long ago and nudged Claymore into deserting it? To think such a thing would rid them of guilt, but it was a comfort that they did not deserve. They forced themself to speak again.

  “And what of you?”

  Shishpar grimaced, but with the gates of conversation thrown open, he could not shy away from the bluntness of the question. “We have been turned from protectors to nightmares, forsaking our principles. I will continue to uphold our ways, but I cannot do that here. I leave tomorrow, and I intend to take the four Queens with me.”

  “The Queen is clever. She’ll never allow them to go.”

  “Then I shall die at my post — the most honorable way for one to go outside of the cosmos,” he returned immediately. Claymore was almost wistful at the sureness in him When was the last time they felt such pull toward their own beliefs? “I will take them to the wolflings. The Erie-folk are the only ones who can restore order, and although they long for freedom, I believe we can convince them to save such a battle for another time. If we do not unite, these New Ways will decimate us all.”

  “You speak of treason in the highest regard.”

  “The one who committed treason is the one on the throne. We should have known better than to follow her as she destroyed the Citadel. We thought we could avoid it. We were fools.” Shishpar rubbed his chin in agitation. “I will not cast blame for that; it is done, and as a son of the sun, I must continue to rise despite it.”

  He pressed his thumb against Claymore’s forehead and made the sign of the star, a final reminder of what was won and what was lost. When Claymore opened their eyes, the man was gone. The only thing that was keeping them afloat now was the realization that Claymore had been taken by Death. When it had happened, they could not say, but at some point in the past weeks, Death had taken them by the hand and led them away. All that was left was Athol Pen.

  You have to die to be born again.

  Athol kicked back the blankets of their bed and forced themself to stand. There was no quake in their knees, no heaviness in their limbs. They fashioned the holster around their waist once more, and their thumb brushed against the handle of the gun with care. After a moment, they removed their holster and set it aside. Oblivion rested on the ground beside the bed. Someone had cleaned the blade, but Athol could still see the ghost of bright red clinging to it with a loud anger. The blade and gun would stay in the Citadel where they belonged.

  Athol did not believe the wolflings to be the best option. The people had sent one of their own for peace but were instead greeted by war; it would be a miraculous event if Shishpar was given the chance to speak at all before he was slaughtered. The Queens would surely be made an example of before the clans, a show of power and strength that the wolflings so admired. No, Athol would have to seek answers elsewhere. The best place to begin such a hunt would be to follow the trail of the fire-haired woman they had glimpsed in the depths of Roam’s torment — to follow their last strand of belief.

  The hallways of the Citadel were eerily quiet, and the chambers of the Aegis were deserted. It made Athol’s work easier, and they fetched a quill and parchment to scrawl a letter to Alycia Cromwell. Speech may have failed them in the throne room, but there was weight in what was written down.

  My Queen,

  I do not know your motivations, your desires, or your plans. I know nothing but this anger turning my stomach to ice. Is this not how the universe was meant to end, in a great chill? I should not be surprised that this is how we part as well, as you have always remained as brilliant and as distant as another universe to me. I am leaving, but I imagine that you knew this would occur. Surely, you would have told me your plans otherwise. I wanted to grab this new world with you, but if our hands come away bloody from it, how can we hold on?

  I do not know if I love you, but I would like to think I did. I would like to think that we are joined as you said, but I do not care if they write songs of us or know of our nights together. I only cared to protect you, and in that, I have been successful. I will not stay gone long. How could I, when all I have known remains linked to these walls — to you, even now? I simply must find my faith once more, and I cannot do it here. Keep Oblivion sharp for me, and when I make my way back to you, I promise that I will not leave your side again. I will wield it against enemy and friend alike, if you desire.

  As I find my faith, I need you to find your honesty once more. I cannot suffer these half-truths about evolution. Give me reason, and I w
ill give you the earth itself.

  Allow for Glaive to take my place as captain. She believes in your cause. I have left her separate instructions, but it is not for me to decide if she yields them. You have chosen to bring dark times to us, but if they will bring brightness at the end, perhaps it will have been worth it. Perhaps not. Only Death can say.

  Yours,

  Athol Pen, the once captain of the Aegis

  Folding both the letter to the Queen and the letter to Glaive tightly, they sealed them with the emblem of the Aegis and placed the parchments atop Oblivion. The gun remained almost innocent beside the blade. This room had been their home for decades now, but they did not pause to stare at the cracks moving up the walls or revel in the flicker of flames from the torches. In the end, it was nothing more than a room, and Athol Pen left it without a backward glance.

  Chapter 37: The Wilds

  “There are few truths written across time.

  One is Death.

  The second is to never look back.”

  Death’s Lament, 9.8

  ARISTA:

  Ranger had cried the first time they cut her flesh, near a decade ago. Now, she only laughed as they moved their surgical instruments across her skin. They wanted to break her, to bring her under their control, but she had lived among such cruelty for so long — did they expect her to weep from fright after returning to a place she considered her childhood home? This laboratory, if it could be called that, was littered across her memory. She stared at the same stains on the ceiling as she had the first time she was brought here. The same cement walls. The same silver hospital bed. The same beeping machines. The same, the same, the same.

  It was far more difficult to ignore Khalsa’s pain. The wolfling bit her tongue until blood filled her mouth instead of releasing the screams they tried to pull from her, but Ranger felt them all the same. They vibrated in her chest. She reveled in the fact that she could feel another so close, even as Khalsa remained in a separate room. What Ranger had not expected was for this caring to cut her so deeply. The pair were connected now, which meant Ranger had to see that the woman actually lived.

  When one of the engineers reached for Ranger, she bit his finger hard enough that she felt the shock of bone, but her persecutors quickly learned their lesson. She was kept sedated more often than not, shot with medications to keep her mind a blur and her reflexes weak. It was not meant to last, however. How could they get what they wanted from her without her being awake and alert? It was what they had always wanted from her. If only stupid Welles could see her now.

  The first time she came to consciousness, she was strapped to a chair. A man with a bright light stood before her, peering down with milky eyes. He was neither short nor tall, but instead, he would have blended into a crowd unnoticed. Immediately, she hated him. She tilted her head to the side to fully observe him.

  “Ranger, they call you,” his shrill voice sounded.

  “They probably call you Little Peen.”

  He did not smile, but she had not wanted him to. It was his stillness that unnerved her, as her whole world was constant motion. If things were not moving, surely they must be dead. She wanted to kick him, just to see if she would break her foot or if he would finally stir.

  “The only one you can trust is the true Queen of the Citadel. Repent, and she will show you kindness.” He flicked a switch, and an electrical machine buzzed to life beside him. It was the same one she had used to kill herself. In the darkness of the room, the blue spark cast him in an eerie light, and her smile flickered. She could still feel the burn it left against her skin, but that had been a choice. He threatened to remove all choice from her. “Do not, and suffer the depths of your punishment.”

  “Oh, you like that, do you? You’re into things I wouldn’t expect. I’m thinking you’re the one who should repent, Little Peen.”

  The spark buzzed loudly, and as the sound hit a peak, he touched the machine to her. Immediately, the pain came. Lightning moved through her body, causing her hands to clench into tight fists and her hair to frizz into tangled knots. She smelled burning, and it was her. Her thoughts fizzled. It stopped any further insults from leaving her lips. This was new. This was not something she had experienced in this room last time. There was not enough power behind the device to stop her heart again. There was only enough to take her breath away, even after he flicked the machine off. The sound cut away with it, and her ears stopped ringing.

  “You have only to admit one thing, and this will stop,” he continued in his monotone voice, devoid of emotion or regret to the pain he caused. “Who is the one true Queen of the Citadel, the Realm, and the world?”

  She tried to answer, but her lips could not seem to form the words her thoughts were piecing together. Deciding on a silent form of rebellion, a difficult task for her in itself, she rolled her eyes. For the good of the Citadel, the man would preach the next three days. For the good of truth. For the good of the blue sky. For the good of liberty. He gave speeches — speeches of reprimand for when the electricity racked her body and speeches of encouragement when she was given a moment’s peace. She could feel them reconstructing her mind again, but she was Ranger and Ranger had been reconstructed more than once. Who knew who she might have been if that was not the case? Instead, she found her thoughts straying to Khalsa.

  The woman — her birthmate now, she had to remind herself — had never been torn apart and sewn back together. She had always been herself, as uniquely annoying as that was to admit. She could not bend, and so she would shatter. It fell on Ranger to ensure that didn’t happen, which was utterly frustrating for one who usually did not spare worry for others. No, not worry; this was keeping her promise to kill the wolfling first. Eventually. After Ranger grew bored of the connection.

  It was impossible to tell the time down in the dim light of the laboratory, but she could feel every twitch of a second that she spent separate from Khalsa — from Olena Rivers. In that way alone, she knew that days were stretching by. Hunger settled in the pit of her stomach. Eventually, she would tell them what they wanted to hear, for compliancy was the only way of survival here, but she could not do such a thing easily. They had to work for it as much as they worked her, and perhaps there was something else there too…

  Was this what it was like to have a soul again?

  The beating in her chest surely meant that she had a heart, and that was the worst part of being two instead of one. Twice the strength came with twice the pain, and she did not want to think what that meant. Your only chance at survival is obedience. She scoffed. It had been done to her before. It hardly mattered what she told them; she would always laugh at their efforts. Olena’s only chance at survival is obedience. She hesitated.

  She lasted four days, and when her resolution crumbled, so did Olena’s.

  SPICA:

  The wolfling could not recall her own name.

  Everything was regulated, from when she ate to when she slept to when they questioned her. In between those times, they shoved pills down her throat. They sheared off her long, long hair. For four days, they remained strong in their isolation of her. Illias was in the other room, after all — no, it was not Illias… She could not quite recall the details before her imprisonment. She could only bask in the memories of childhood that had come long before. At length, she spoke about their migrations north during summer months and swimming in the snow melt rivers. She spoke about how she swore she had been born with a bow in her hand and how freedom was a fight worth everything. She spoke about herself, and she spoke about others. Nothing changed the pattern she had fallen into.

  She felt Illias give up.

  No, that wasn’t quite right… Not Illias…

  She continued to fight, albeit with a weakness that shamed her.

  Why does it shame you, my darling? We only wish to make you stronger than you ever have been.

  (I don’t believe you.)

  Voices clouded her head, but she rarely saw their faces. There we
re only two forms that she regularly glimpsed: the man with the device, who burned her insides and ripped stories from her with his monotone voice, and the woman with the floor-length blonde hair, who stood like a Queen and smiled like a blessing in a place lacking in miracles. Whenever the wolfling saw her, she hated, but she could not recall why. Electricity robbed her of thought, and the woman’s visits were sanctuary from such a robbery. She gave pills that chased every bad emotion away. The only thing that kept the wolfling grounded to the earth beneath the table she was strapped to was the woman’s visits. She counted every one of them.

  Forty-nine times, once per awake cycle. Forty-nine smiles, forty-nine breaks from lightning, forty-nine whispered promises, forty-nine pills, forty-nine visits that rarely shifted from the order that established itself in the dimly lit room. On the fiftieth appearance of the golden woman, she slipped a dagger into the wolfling’s hand.

  “Please, my darling. Do what you must.”

  The man returned the next day, precisely as schedule mandated. She was not awakened by a shock of cold water this time. She waited with half-closed eyes as he loosened her hold to guide her to the chamber pot. Barely had she gotten her grip back when she plunged the blade into the man’s neck. She pulled the weapon back. Both her and the floor were immediately coated in the dark red blessing of blood. She used the blade to cut her binds free, ignoring how the color smeared against her skin and made the task difficult.

  Her limbs were weak from lack of use, but she was filled with strength — not hers alone, but the strength of an able-bodied other half somewhere close. Illias was near. She recognized him. The wolfling darted from the room, breathing a sigh of relief at the unlocked door.