Chapter 44
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
FOX
T he day after the fight with his father, Fox woke up hungover and exhausted. He didn’t pull out the Dragonborn book. Not yet. He told himself he’d say the prayer the next day. Five days later, he still hadn’t. He didn’t want to believe it had anything to do with his father’s accusations of him being a traitor. His father didn’t have that influence over him anymore. He’d simply been busy.
Fox knew he was only fooling himself.
He’d moved back into the barracks the day after his hangover, suddenly happy to get back to his job if it meant getting away from his father’s looks of disgust. The job itself left him exhausted. Every night after dinner, he flung himself across the bed in his new private room without even changing. He was in charge of two of the dozens of raiding parties that were sweeping through the city, hunting down the last remnants of the resistance.
He knew, deep down, where the information for their raids was coming from. Whether it was from Sofia’s bleeding lips or one of her friends, he didn’t know, but he knew the information was being paid for in Dragonborn blood. He tried to ignore this fact as they stormed homes and dragged out parents and children, tearing down walls in search of hidden rooms and resistance paraphernalia.
And for small incremental moments, he could pretend that he was the person he was last cycle. Last blink. When things were simple and he didn’t see Sofia’s face in every Dragonborn he dragged to prison. The mother of three who had her moss green eyes. The single man who had her freckles. The small child born into the wrong family who had her same heart-shaped face and curly hair as he was dragged away with the rest of his family for the hunting bow behind the icebox and the illegal meat inside.
The children still looked too skinny, even with the stolen rations.
Trying not to think too hard, he left his shift that day and went straight to the prison, handing the guards his own dinner rations and asking them to give it to the three children and their parents. The older solider blinked at the request, but didn’t question it and Fox walked away before he could second-guess his own command.
He returned to his parents’ home, walking in without knocking and gave a brief hug to his mother, telling her he wanted to spend one last night on his good mattress before returning to work full-time. She didn’t question him, sending him off with a soft kiss on his forehead.
His father wasn’t home, but he still crept through the house as quietly as he could, closing the bedroom door softly behind him. He collected a few items before ducking into the large walk-in closet. The room went black for a second before the spark of the match flared and he lit the candle in his hand.
His mind was blank as he went about making his impromptu altar to the gods he had never believed in. But something in him had broken that afternoon. He didn’t have it in him to go to sleep that night without finally following through on his promise to Sofia, even with alcohol buzzing in his blood and softening his thoughts. He had to do this.
He didn’t have the ceremonial dish or dagger, but he set a small copper bowl he’d stolen from the kitchens on the ground next to the candle. He pulled the feather out from behind the panel along with the book, only briefly noting he’d put the panel on crooked in his rush to greet his mother before. It had been a stupid move that he couldn’t make again.
He should burn the book anyway. After all these cycles, it would go from a souvenir of grief and guilt to proof that he was a traitor. He shook off his thoughts and flipped through the pages until he found what he needed.
The text was faded, old ink on older parchment. But it was clear enough. He couldn’t read Dragonborn very well, but the words were familiar from hearing the child in the cenote speak them, and it only took a few times reciting them before he was confident he was saying at least a semblance of the prayer. He didn’t understand the words and he hoped that didn’t matter.
He set it all up neatly before unsheathing his dagger and placing the blade against his hand. It was only then that he stopped, suddenly conscious of what he was about to do and what it meant . And in all the irony possible, he sent up a prayer to the old kings asking for forgiveness.
He hissed as the dagger bit into the soft flesh between his finger and thumb and blood welled immediately. The candle flickered as he rushed to move his hand over the bowl and let the blood drip. And then he prayed. If one could consider chanting the words in a language he didn’t know a prayer. The air seemed to press in around him as he tried to infuse the words with all the piety he’d never even felt for the kings.
One moment he had his eyes closed and the next his arm was being wrenched back, the dagger clattering to the floor as his wrist was twisted. His eyes flashed open. The candle had been knocked over, the flame sputtered out, but the closet was lit from the gas lamps of his room.
“It was only a matter of time before you gave yourself away.” His father’s voice burned with victory as someone pulled Fox from his closet.
He bucked, trying to throw the man off of him, but he only managed to get in a sharp elbow before someone punched him hard across the face. His teeth rattled and a sharp snap ran up his nose as blood streamed down his face. The guard behind him cuffed him quickly as the other went into the closet and pulled out the dragon’s feather and book, handing them to his father who stood nearby, smiling.
He hadn’t heard them come in, but his bedroom door was wide open. He was only thankful that the hallway was empty, his mother hopefully oblivious to what was happening.
His father tucked the feather into the book before he stepped up to Fox, his smile wide.
“The possession of this book and feather alone would have been enough to arrest you, but I can’t wait to see the chief commander’s face when I tell him you were using them for some heathen ritual.” He leaned down, breath hot against Fox’s face as he whispered for only him to hear. “Congratulations for proving me wrong for once. You’re not just worthless. You’re treasonous filth.”
Fox spit into his father’s face, satisfied when he reared back.
“I can’t wait to watch the life drain from your eyes when I finally get my chance to kill you, Father,” Fox said, venom in every word.
“You’re no son of mine. And I’ll kill you long before you get the chance to raise a sword against me.”
Fox lunged forward, but the man restraining him held tight and he let out a growl of frustration, teeth gnashing.
“An animal just like the rest of your dragon-filth allies,” his father said before he turned and motioned for the rest of the soldiers. “Let’s go.”
They dragged him out through the servants’ staircase, as if even his father didn’t want to face his wife’s reaction.
The night was dark, the blinking moons now crescents and the stars providing little in terms of light, but the gas lamps cast a warm glow across the street as they made their procession. Fox’s stomach gave a lurch of shame when he saw Ian coming up the street, his strides toward the manor faltering as they came into view under one of the lights.
“What’s going on? General?” he said, eyes sliding over Fox to the general.
“We have a traitor in our midst, it seems.”
“Sir?” Ian’s eyes flickered back to Fox, wide and unblinking.
“Tell the chief commander his presence is required at the prison. I’m over playing nice with these beasts.”
With that, his father continued their procession, leaving Ian blinking back at them for only a moment before he turned and ran for the chief commander’s house. Fox didn’t bother turning his head as he emptied his stomach onto the boots of the soldiers dragging him.