Chapter 2 #2
It was a bedtime story my mother used to read. That was before her and my father were deployed. How did I remember that?
That book was about runes. The Era of Broken Oaths: runes ran unchecked, unbalanced, and untamed. Then, a counterbalance happened. The Great Stillness was a time of panic; runes stopped working. People had to go back to training their magic and not just relying on runes to enhance it.
But these are stories, long twisted by the old tongues who retell them endlessly. They teach children lessons.
The fae’s eyes dip to my hands. “Why did you burn the dead?”
I don’t want to talk about that!
“Why?” he repeats the question with such authority, like he’s the author and I’m a sheet of paper, his question the ink I am forced to have absorbed within me. No matter how much I don’t want that stain upon my mind, I am compelled to answer.
“We burn our dead,” I force out.
“We are in the middle of a battle. You could have used your magic to kill.”
“What does it matter to you?” I sneer as I place my boot firmly into the soil, readying myself.
“I watched as you looked at our dead, too. You looked like you wanted to do something.”
Fuck this! I’m walking into a trap.
I make the first move, surging forward, my sword raised high. Steel catches the light of the rising moon and the setting sun. It is a strange time where light and dark meet.
I aim at his weak spot, his exposed arm. The speed at which I swing the arch makes a sharp whistling sound. He hesitates, lips pressed. Those wide eyes narrow with anger over my choice of replying with my sword and not my tongue.
Our blades collide with a sharp clang. I force all my power into my arms; my biceps are on fire, muscles burning and devouring all the energy I have. The force of the clash vibrates up my arm. We press against each other, faces inches apart.
“Why?” he persists with that bloody question.
He’s really starting to piss me off! “Fae do not burn their dead!” I shout and spit. “That is why I do not burn every fallen soldier I walk past.”
How does he know that if the fae did burn their dead, I would have set their bodies aflame, too?
His eyes are unmoving, shades of brown and green, rich like the tall forests in his lands. His hair is styled in the high fae tradition, braided on the sides and tied back. “But we are your enemy; why would you honor our bodies?”
“Alive, you are my enemy. Dead, you are my brother who is a casualty in this war.” The surrounding battle grows dull.
My nostrils flare, and I brace myself for the putrid scent of death, the sour tang of piss from the bodies now decaying, and the metallic sharpness of blood as it mixes with earthy soil.
I shake my arms, trying to fend off the chills that wrap around me, but… I smell nothing. Not death or life. The air feels strangely pure, though the sensation is so subtle I question its existence.
I twist my wrist; my blade slides down his. A terrible screech grates on my ears as the edges of our steel scrape. His grip holds firm, refusing to give ground. Our swords grind together until the tips hover near each other’s necks, each one a hair’s breadth away from ending the fight.
Our eyes lock; neither blinks. That would be the key that unlocks our next attack.
This isn’t just a fight. It’s something more.
If this is the last person I will speak to, I want to share my entire truth.
“Our kings respect us when we hold a sword, honor us when we kill, and sing songs about our victories, but when we die… when we die,”—my voice grows colder than the death surrounding us—“we become nothing to them! Merely failures who should have fought harder! We’re left to the birds and predators of these lands because using time and resources to honor our bodies is a waste. ”
“That’s why you burn the bodies.” He speaks to me with high respect and even dips his chin, which places his face closer to the edge of my blade.
Make no mistake, this is not him giving up; he will fight me to the death because, like any honorable warrior, he will give me the best fight he has until his dying breath. Or mine.
“That is why,” I echo.
“You would bury my kind if you could,” he states with assurance.
“I have buried them.” Tristen, Ember, Ryker, Nero, Cyrus, and I did so when no one was looking. Instead of resting, we returned to the battlefield and dug graves. The sheer number of corpses overwhelmed us. We did the best we could.
I hope that one day, if my brother and I lie dead on a field, someone—it doesn’t matter who—will take the time to burn my body and set my pain free.
A sword to the heart is a death I could accept, but knowing my flesh will be pecked open by the birds, then my inners ripped apart and devoured by the true beast of this world, that was a fate I didn’t want attached to my name, whether my name was to be forgotten or sung throughout history.
He raises an eyebrow. “Night hides many secrets that your king would have killed you for.”
How does he know we buried the bodies during the night? My swallow causes my neck to rub against his sword. “It kept the birds at bay.” I admit as if the act was nothing. But it was everything to me. My apology for having killed another, so myself and my siblings could live. I am truly sorry.
He grunts. “Why do you cover up your honor with lies? You want their bodies to be respected.”
“Why do you speak when we should be fighting?” Without warning, I push back and to the left, twisting sideways to avoid the tip of his sword.
We start the dance again, each of us circling for the next opening.
“They were wrong to erase the runes from our lands.” He steps closer, forcing our dance to be intimate.
“You’re mad!” I refuse to be killed by a lunatic. “Runes are myths.”
He levels me with a stare that makes me feel stupid. “All things serve dual purposes. Perhaps I am mad, but I plead the truth. The runes brought stability and also gluttony. Balance and contrast make definitions. Look at you, for example.”
“I’m a soldier. If I’m ordered to kill, I obey.” Because my neck is on the line, and my brother’s is too.
“But you also bury the dead. All the dead. You create a balance.”
Continuing this conversation is a dangerous road to walk down, but it’s trotting downhill; I’m forced to keep going rather than turn around and endure a more strenuous path. “It means nothing.” I inhale; my lungs push against my stiff clothing, layers of leather and metal.
His laugh startles me. “It means everything,” he declares.
What in the name of all the gods is happening? It is a risk, but I take it, moving my eyes off him to look around us. The longer I engage in this bizarre conversation, the farther and farther it is from my ears, yet it’s right here next to me.
As I look, I watch fellow soldiers swing their swords; some miss their marks, while others land, and some fall to their knees as exhaustion claims victory. Lingering magic fades, mirroring the soldiers’ demise.
I tilt my head and listen. Peace fills my ears instead of horrors.
Why can’t I hear the battle?
I can see it. Wait, it’s still moving slower. Or is it my tired eyes?
My gaze whip back to him as one would force a horse to run faster. My stomach knots so tight I fear it will never taste a meal that can settle it. The fear in my body spreads like a poison throughout my blood.
My eyes don’t deceive me. It’s him causing the soldiers surrounding us to move more slowly. As if they are snowflakes, slowly drifting down instead of the strong, pelting rain.
“What magic is this?” I demand. He doesn’t have to answer me, but he likes to talk to his prey.
His stained armor tells me he has been fighting for hours.
“How do you still have magic?” I press.
His mouth curls into a smile framed with dirt and grime from the day. “Like you, I choose to use my magic for other reasons—reasons other than killing. I’ve been looking for you.”
His eyes shine like a monster’s when entering the fog, or a hero who is unflinching in the unknown.
“I knew you’d be here,” he continues, “but I needed to see if you were worthy. Only one who wishes to create balance can press pen to paper.” His head tilts, like the weight of a scale. “I had to be sure your heart was pure. Not of vengeance like the huntress is.”
He’s a lunatic. I inch back, but shit! There is that force again, pushing at my back and tugging my chest closer to him.
“I’m a time-weaver,” he claims with delight. “I can create pockets in time, slow things down for a few moments, keeping you trapped with me. But our time is almost up.”
I snort, but the moment the sound huffs out of my nostrils, I start to doubt my next statement. “They do not exist.”
He opens his left hand. “Am I not here?” He raises his sword. “Is my blade not made of metal? Has our conversation not taught you that things forgotten and feared do exist?”
“You like to toy with your prey,” I counter, though I cannot help but shudder.
A time-weaver! Tristen won’t believe it. The only good thing to come of the war was the travel. My brother and I have seen and met people and visited lands we never imagined. We witnessed magic we had only read about in books.
“Yes and no.” His reply is instant, like a slap in the face. “I knew you’d be here, and yes, I cut my way through men and women to reach you on this battlefield.”
My teeth clench. “You speak as if you have the magic to see the future.”
“I never said I didn’t.” His smirk turns mocking.
I lift my sword like a shield, heart hammering beneath it. “Now I know you’re mad with lies. Time-weaving is rare; foresight is impossible. No one person is gifted with both rarities.”