DILLON

Hushed voices surround me, their quiet murmurs remind me of the vast halls of my old guild back in Angel’s Path– with its high walls decorated with black banners and steel blades. I hear the whispers of men soothing horses, people kindling fires and feet shuffling.

But I also hear Arellia. Her quiet voice is a grating, sorrowful sound in my ears.

When lucidity seeps back into my mind, I know better than to open my eyes. My hands, feet and chest are bound with itchy rope, my shoulders slump forward, my head lolling to the side at a painful angle, obstructing my airway. My breaths are shallow, almost painful. But I do not ache. I feel stronger than I have in weeks, but there is a dull throbbing in my mind making me nauseated.

My mouth tastes strange, like iron and herbs. Something feels wrong. How did I get here? And how do I keep getting myself into these situations?

The sun is unabashedly bright, even through my closed eyelids. I squeeze my eyes hard and force them open. Figures stand before me. Dozens of them– men, women and children.

Arellia’s face flashes before me like a terrible nightmare. Her eyes were puffy and red as she cried into the nook of her brother’s arm. She looked as though she was terrified of me– like I was the Devil himself. But it was me who was scared.

Brother, who is this man? She asked. I can taste the bitterness of her stare on my tongue like I have ingested copious amounts of yarrow roots. She has forgotten me, forgotten all we have been through the last few days.

Now I stare at my bound feet. They have tied me to a wooden pole surrounded by dry grass and wooden planks. I lift my stiff neck and lean back against my funeral pyre and let a low chuckle escape me. Despite the intense heat of the afternoon, cold sweat runs down my back and thighs. I rove my eyes over the landscape. I am still in this village, in the middle of nowhere.

Half-dead trees and dry spiky bushes litter the ground. Light, warm winds sweeping through the arid land pick up specks of sand and dried leaves and weeds, carrying them over the hills and into the distant desert. I flick my gaze to Father Phillippe. He is a commanding figure with his hands clasped behind his stark-white robe, surrounded by hunched-backed villagers.

“Today is a Blessed day,” His voice booms, cutting through the quiet. “For we have witnessed a miracle!” The villagers press their palms together in prayer, relishing and devouring every single word that comes out of Father Phillippe’s mouth.

“For we have been patient! And now we are in the presence of Divinity!” Slowly he lifts his arm from behind his back and motions toward me, letting his white sleeve flutter in the light wind. “Our devotion to the Faith will be rewarded!”

Two armed men from Vasilis’ infantry scuttle over and place a small wooden box at my feet and jog away. I open my mouth to speak, but my tongue is swollen and large inside my mouth. My teeth and gums are numb. Drool drips from my chin onto the wood below. I can’t even feel it, but I can taste the residual bitterness of herbs. They have drugged me.

The wooden box below is covered in swirling patterns of red and black. Patterns that send chills down the curve of my spine. I am reminded of the markings on black tapestries in the dark room where Arellia was brought to life, reminded of the decorations and patterns on the stained-glass windows of my old village temple. I used to think they were beautiful. Now all I feel is dread.

“In the sight of all Gods and their Angels, I do here vow; Let the Devils sing my name,” Father Phillippe kneels below me and places both palms on the box. He closes his eyes and lifts his head, pointing his chin to the sky as if his Gods and Angels are listening. “Know my anguish, taste my Blood.”

Swiftly, he takes out his small silver dagger and makes a quick cut over his palm, reopening the wound from when he resurrected Arellia. Blood trickles slowly. He slams the palm over the box, mixing blood with ink and smothers the markings, leaving crimson and dark streaks over the wood.

“Fear no darkness, for I am with you!” His voice trembles and he shivers violently as if a deep winter wind has just passed through him. Sweat begins to bead over his head, pain etched across his flawless face. “Be not dismayed, for I am your Saviour!” He snaps open his eyes and brings down his chin to face me. His dark pupils dilate, brown irises expand outwards, dancing and swirling over the whites of his eyes. It is like staring into the pits of Hell itself.

Father Phillippe stands suddenly, lifted up by a force not made from his legs but like a puppet whose strings are pulled. I flinch as he takes a step closer to the pyre. When Father Phillippe opens his mouth, the voice that escapes is not of this world.

“So long as you Bleed, I will heal.”

The bright blue afternoon sky darkens a shade, winds travelling through sands and rocky mountains pick up speed, sending large plumes of dust into the air. I groan as small rocks and debris fly straight at me. The villagers gasp and press their heads into the ground.

I turn my head to Vasilis and his army, straining to keep my eyes open to the incoming storm. Their proud white banners flutter violently in the hissing wind. The men stand tall and ready, blades and shields in hand, in a protective formation guarding their king and beloved princess.

“So long as I breathe, you will prosper.”

“Fuck!” I shout as the voice penetrates my skull and every fibre of my being. It squeezes down on my mind, wringing out my emotions and fear like a wet dishcloth. The harsh wind is an assault on my dry eyes causing tears to stream down the side of my face. Screams and shouts ring in the air.

I feel an excruciating pressure against my eardrums like they will burst at any moment. Fear like I have never felt travels through me. My bones vibrate, muscles quivering. I clench my teeth to stop from biting through my tongue.

“For you are the child of Blood and I am your salvation!”

At the corner of my vision, I pick out Arellia’s small frame amidst the chaos. A wall of infantrymen stands huddled in a circle, their shields raised, protecting them from oncoming debris and dust. Tree branches groan and snap, the sound as loud as thunderstorms, then a thunk as it slams against one of the shields.

“For the Darkest night is yet to come!”

Father Phillippe raises his arms and smiles. The villagers howl and cry their prayers–their voices partially muted by the deafening stormwind and the rattle of broken window shutters–awed now that their Angel has shown himself.

Amid the howls and cries of exaltation to the Angels, Father Phillippe drops his arms to his sides before raising his right arm and extending his index finger. As though his body does not belong to him, Father Phillippe juts forward from the momentum as he spins and drags his finger over each villager. They scream and shiver as if the end of that finger was a loaded shotgun.

“For you are Blood, and Blood I shall devour!”

As if driven by some sort of hysteria, the villagers begin to sing their prayers. The song is sharp and high-pitched, matching the intense harmony of the storm. But suddenly, he stills as he cranes his neck to face me once more. Slowly, he pulls his arm toward me and my vision contracts to its point– my breath catches in my throat as I feel an overwhelming wave of nausea pass through me. Despite the roaring wind and hair in my eyes, I feel a stillness in my soul as I focus on the tip of that finger.

I do not know how much time has passed. It is only when Father Phillippe drops his arm that I feel the bite of sharp steel in my abdomen, feel hot thick blood trickle down my legs. I drag down my eyes and stare at young Emile– his small hands gripped tightly over the small silver dagger. He does not look at me. His gaze is on my wound.

“E-Emil-”

A woman shoves the boy aside and pulls the dagger from my abdomen just to stick it into my thigh. I hiss from the pain, my palms clench tight against their passive assault. There is no animosity in their action, just indifference. I howl as a man pulls the dagger from my leg and stabs me under my collarbone. Then another comes. And another.

Then all at once, the searing pain crashes into me like a hurricane. I do not have the power to scream. I choke violently on blood and bile. My vision stutters between black and the swarm of men and women as they come one by one to take this blood-stained knife and thrust it into me.

In. Out. In. Out.

Blood sluices over the face of a young girl, I see her laugh as she dances away from the crowd– then my vision blurs. Numbly, I feel them tearing at my hair, my clothes– feel the dagger slice through my bicep as another grabs it and sticks it into my hip. I cry hysterically from the agony, the overwhelming fear.

“I-Ifrie…” I sputter, mouth full of blood and bile. I see her in the crowd. Beautiful golden hair dancing in the storm, dress as red as the day she died. When she opens her eyes, silver stare back into mine.

“Now, he is ready to be sent to Heavens!” Father Phillippe sings. “For we must suffer, for all must suffer before we are sent to the Heavens! For we must know pain to know love! To know happiness and peace!”

They throw their lit torches at the tinder and bark below my feet. Black smoke rises into my lungs. Despite the storm, the fire catches. I see the grass sway and branches flying through the storm but I do not hear it. All is quiet around me save from the hissing insects and crackling of flames as it licks and devours the wood, inching closer and closer to my legs.

“Burn them all!” Father Phillippe shouts. I hear the clatter of boots then the screams of men, women and children. Blood clouds my peripheral vision. I do not look at them. I do not care. Let them suffer, just as I have suffered by their hands.

When the last villager dies. Vasilis’ men pile their bodies at my feet and let the fire slowly devour them. I watch as the wood burns, splits and curls in on itself like dying spiders. I try not to look at their faces.

The smoke has coiled so thick that it looks like night has fallen. I lift my head and dare steal a glance at the woman who is the cause of it all. My anger burns so hot that I cannot feel the fire beneath my feet. But when I see her, the ache in my chest is more than I can bear. Arellia is crying, beautiful silver eyes locked on mine before she is dragged away by her brother.

How can a monster be so damn beautiful?

I watch as she is escorted back to her golden palace. She opens her mouth to speak but I don’t hear her. I do not wish to. I no longer care. Death is coming for me at last.

Strange, to have survived so many battles, fought against enemies much stronger than I could ever be, to outlive my friends and family, only to die now– bound to a burning pyre, branded a traitor, stripped of all pride. Disgraced–an unwanted bastard, a failure of a son, a terrible lover, a murderer. A nobody. A man whose life means nothing.

I sob, lift my chin and stare into the Heavens. The eye of the storm. Amid dark blue skies with a sliver of purple and orange on the horizon and glittering stars, a large ominous ball of black looms over me like the shadow of a gigantic beast.

Death is nearly here. I am ready for him.

At least it is a beautiful night to die.

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END OF PART I

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