ã€ŠMy Blood in Your Graveã€‹


 1. Vrykolakas

    From the first time our eyes met I knew that he would be my triumph, my saviour. My destined love.

    Later he lay on the chapel floor, golden hair matted with gore, and the butcher was digging through his entrails.

    -

    I was born the seventh child of a peasant family.

    In the minds of the villagers, that was enough to brand me as one whose death shall mark the beginning of countless murders.

    As repugnant as they must¡¯ve found me because of this, they would not kill me, for doing so would have only sped up the inevitable.

    It is said that the primary victims of a vrykolakas are those who, in life, were dearest to its heart. It visits friends and relatives in their dreams just as, in waking, it wraps its clammy fingers around their throats. If the victims awaken the next morning, then only long enough to call family to their bedside.

    They will be abnormally pale, as if their blood was sucked in the night without a single wound left behind, and often too delirious to speak those final, merciful words - to a partner, to a lover, to a scorned brother or misunderstood mother - that we all hold close in our hearts and resolve to reveal only once it is too late.

    In the graveyard, a vrykolakas will unearth a corpse and eat its liver.

    Exhumed, a vrykolakas will be found undecomposed, its limbs supple, its blood fresh and uncoagulated. If you hadn¡¯t seen it die, if you hadn¡¯t washed its corpse and readied it for burial, you would be convinced that it still lived.

    Or so they say.

    I was born the seventh child, and it mattered not that three of my older siblings were already dead. Seven is an unlucky number, enough so to bind me to this destiny. They say that I have two hearts beating in my chest - one will die along with my humanity, whilst the second will continue pumping blood around my corpse and transform me into a crazed beast.

    Every night I lay silently in my bed, and listened for this second heartbeat. But I could only hear one.

    My siblings regarded me with mixed feelings. They teased me, as all older siblings tend to do, but they did it with a smidge of fear that did not go unnoticed. Affectionate mockery mixed with statements of ¡®You¡¯re so young, we¡¯ll die before you,¡¯ spoken as if to comfort themselves.

    My parents were typical, superstitious folk, bred and raised in the very same village we still lived in. My father talked of his one trip over to the neighbouring parish with all the awe of a great and experienced traveller. Looking at his wrinkled, sun-worn face as he spoke thus, I felt that it was not only my death that was set in stone, but my life also.

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    And so when I first heard that a woman - married off to some distant foreigner long ago - had come back to the village with her worldly son, I was ignited with curiosity.

    I did not see them arrive. For the first few days, I only knew them through the words of others.

    Twenty years ago this woman, Justina, gave her hand to a travelling merchant. He came from Woltair, a Kingdom an ocean away, and she let him whisk her away. I could only wonder at what she saw, what she felt when she first laid eyes on those impossibly distant shores.

    Travellers that sometimes stumble into the village tell us tales of Woltair, of its nobility, its ever changing gods. There were no parishes, no priests, no censure. You could wake up one morning and change the one you worship, or worship none at all. There were balls and feasts and no rules as long as you reserved your dignity, or had the charms to do well enough without it. Freedom, freedom and possibilities, a dozen doors to a dozen futures, tucked away in the pockets of embroidered suits and hiding behind perfect smiles.

    Justina raised a son there. I could see him so clearly - this boy with the blood of Aquir peasants flowing through his veins, parading down the city streets of Woltair as if that was where he belonged, unaware of the lucky hand that fate had generously extended to him. He would not read the many books available to him, or listen to lectures given by his teachers. Instead, he would attend balls and while the time away indulging in the temporary pleasures of absinthe and women, for a city-born boy was as foolish as he was grand.

    But now Justina had come back with her son in tow. They say that she looked haggard as she stood at the village gate and trembled like a woman touched by the grave. When she laid eyes on her old father, she burst into tears, and neighbours could hear her crying throughout the night. Poor little widow, they call her.

    She hasn¡¯t gone outside since then.

    The same couldn¡¯t be said for her son. The first time I saw him, it was as if my heart tore itself apart and reassembled into something new.

    He stood by a neighbour¡¯s garden, and chatted to her as she watered her flowers. His hair was the first thing I noticed. And how could I not? It was a lion¡¯s mane, voluminous and curly, that ran down to the small of his back. The nobility of distant lands adorned itself in gold-lined clothes and jewellery studded with gems, but I was certain that those expensive sparkles could never compete with the golden glisten of his hair in the afternoon sun.

    He wore a tunic and embroidered vest, as do many common people, and the sash tied around his middle drew eyes to the delicacy of his waist. He was tall and slim, yet broad shouldered, and his sun-kissed skin was tanned not from gruelling farmwork but a cultivated leisure. He had a curious grace to his motions - the way he raised a hand to stifle quiet laughter, the attentive tilt of his head, the perfectly straight posture - that signalled his foreignness to the village.

    Watching him, it was as if the daily bustle of the village faded into the background. Even the flowers, in all their beauty, seemed to me nothing more than splashes of colour put upon this earth simply to compliment him who stood among them.

    The world was a painting and he was its subject.

    And how he dazzled me already.

    But he didn¡¯t see me then, and it was only a week later that our eyes finally met.

 2. Chapel

    In hopes of countering my unlucky birth, I had set myself to work at the village chapel. The chaplain took me in with good humour, for he was old and weary, and in need of a helping hand. He did not believe in my salvation but, he said, where was the harm in trying?

    So I collected donations, scrubbed the floors and dusted the altar. Our Earth Goddess Asmara was carved of wood, a work of little delicacy and lesser result. The carver was a travelling craftsman and, when commissioned by our chaplain, he could barely contain his disdain at the lowly price offered. Yet he accepted the task and, from a block of aspen, carved an angular interpretation of the Goddess that was, all in all, far too avant-garde for a village such as this.

    It might be because of that odd sculpture that I so clearly remember the beginning of that fateful week.

    It was the week leading up to Asmara¡¯s Feast and, to commemorate our devotions in the eyes of the Goddess, we brought her sculpture to stand outside the chapel. The chaplain was behind me, tutting and fretting as I tried to secure it on earth that was still hard from the last struggles of winter.

    ¡°Watch it, Gustav, be gentle with Her!¡± He said. ¡°We should get some ornaments for Her. She looks so plain like this! And the man calls himself an artist - a fraud, I tell you, couldn¡¯t even be bothered to do a little engraving.¡±

    I hummed in acknowledgement and continued trying to settle the sculpture down into the earth. Be gentle, he said! The ground was solid. Where did those flowers find the strength to break through frost? ¡°We could get her some flowers.¡± I suggested.

    The Chaplain clicked his tongue. ¡°Flowers! Like they do in the capital these days, draping the Goddess in any old weeds, dancing down the streets like it¡¯s some playground rendezvous? For shame! Since High Priest Caine ascended, people lost their respect for tradition, I¡¯ll tell you that. Back in the days of High Priest Iupiter, we¨C¡± And so he droned on. I had learnt to tune out these rants of his that, at their core, were nothing more than the Chaplain¡¯s misplaced jealousy.

    He had gotten drunk one evening and, drawing me close, boasted of how he once kissed the rings of the previous High Priest and how he was, supposedly, praised for his Holy service. He took this praise to heart, hoping that one day the High Priest would call upon him and take him into his inner circle. ¡°The Elder Priests, you know, they don¡¯t go around villages on donkeys and the hems of their robes don¡¯t have a speck of mud on them. Oh, Iupiter liked me, I could see it in his eyes, he would have taken me in, if he just hadn¡¯t died so soon after.¡±

    ¡°How soon?¡± I had asked.

    ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t know, five, six years?¡± He said, then saw the doubt in my face. ¡°Agh, it takes time you know! I would¡¯ve been there already if this High Priest Caine cared whatsoever for the wishes of his predecessor.¡±

    The Chaplain was delusional, of that I had no doubt. He recited psalms and listened to the routine confessions of dreary peasants and thought his life a waste. Why was he old and crumbling like the tiles of his chapel, when he knew so much and was meant for so much more? That¡¯s what he thought, anyway.

    An average man in the face of a relentless destiny, unable to face his own mediocrity, could only blame it on another.

    But what about myself?

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    ¡°Should be alright now.¡± I said, having finally secured the sculpture.

    ¡°If only it weren¡¯t wooden, we could sanctify it with blood. Just like High Priest Iupiter would do.¡± He said. ¡°Ah right, Gustav, why don¡¯t you go on and check in with Beata - she¡¯s promised us her cow this year.¡±

    And so I went.

    -

    It was only a quick matter. Beata showed me the cow, a large creature obliviously munching away at a patch of grass, and assured me that it would be ready for the Feast.

    I felt sorry for the beast, and Beata, too. I suspected that she had been made a victim of the Chaplain¡¯s trademark pettiness; a month ago she tripped whilst carrying a bucket of milk, and spilt the contents on the Chaplain¡¯s robes. He grumbled about the incident excessively and, to the discomfort of the whole village, the scent of curdled milk trailed after him for weeks. It was no mystery why he chose Beata to provide this year¡¯s offering.

    With those thoughts I made my way back to the chapel. It was a dingy little stone building, its grey exterior a smear upon the otherwise pleasant village landscape. I looked at the sculpture standing in front, its angular forms obscured in the chapel¡¯s shadow, and felt the urge to take it away to a distant field, where it would look imposing and grand atop some grassy hill. Surely this man-made gloom could bring no joy to Asmara, who had birthed soil and water and danced with her sister in the flower field that existed when nothing else did?

    Voices drifted over from inside the chapel. I heard the Chaplain¡¯s voice, unmistakably irritated, but the other was unfamiliar to me. It was smooth and masculine, its tone possessing a concentrated calmness and a lilt that was somehow pleasant in its strangeness.

    ¡°¡­from such books I came to wonder, why do you spill blood to honour the Earth Goddess? How do you know it is Asmara you invoke during the Feast? Is blood not¨C¡±

    The Chaplain interrupted in palpable fury. ¡°Did you come here to spew filthy blasphemy in the face of the Goddess? Your grandfather is a pious man and you dare stand here, thinking yourself to be some lost Woltair Princeling!¡±

    I stepped into the chapel and saw the Chaplain, his pale visage dyed crimson. Standing opposite him with his profile to me was that lion-maned young man whose name I knew by then to be Valdemar.

    The Chaplain looked like a rooster with its feathers ruffled as he stared up at Valdemar and waved an admonishing finger in his face. Valdemar, on the other hand, seemed to be almost perfectly at ease, with only the smallest wrinkle between his brows betraying his own vexation.

    ¡°I do not doubt or blaspheme. I simply wish to know the answers,¡± he said, forming his hands into a steeple, ¡°so that my devotion could prosper.¡±

    ¡°Get out!¡± suddenly demanded the Chaplain, pointing his finger to the door.

    ¡°But-¡±

    ¡°Out!¡±

    Valdemar grit hit teeth. He curtsied, an out of place gesture that reddened the Chaplain¡¯s face even more, and turned to leave the chapel.

    He flicked his gaze over me, his dark almond eyes like twin eclipses in the dimness of the chapel, and I became promptly aware of myself - of the grass stains on my tunic and the dirt on my shoes and the splinter throbbing in the pad of my thumb.

    What I heard had drawn out all my hopes and captured them completely. Here was a man who questioned and doubted, a man who likely did not share the common beliefs that bound the village and turned them against me. A beautiful outsider who would understand me just as I had always wanted.

    I sought to catch my reflection in his eyes, to appraise myself and determine if he saw in me even half of what I saw in him.

    But he looked away and, just like that, walked past me and out of the chapel. I quickly realised that whilst he was a novelty, to him I was nothing but yet another uneducated villager.

    ¡°Chaplain,¡± I called out, my eyes locked onto Valdemar¡¯s receding figure, ¡°would you allow me to participate in the blood sacrifice?¡±

 3. Sacrifice

    It is not Asmara who gave us life, but it is to Asmara we give our life back to.

    Death is inevitable, death is a horror, and in death our bodies rot and fall apart and melt into the earth. But the soil was once a part of our Goddess, and as we become one with the earth we simply fall into Her embrace. In our last moments with Her arms wrapped around us, is it Her kiss we will feel upon our breaking skulls before we turn back to nothing?

    Or will it be the throb of a second heart coming into motion?

    I was dimly aware of my own heart - just the one - beating in my chest as I watched the villagers line up in front of the sculpture. A white blanket was draped over the Goddess¡¯s arms and on it she held a golden bowl. It was the only treasure of this chapel, an obligatory dowry passed on from the Main Temple of Asvaren so that the village could give offerings with all respect due.

    A young woman stood hesitantly in front of the sculpture. She was biting her lip, her chest rising and falling quickly like that of a little frightened bird, and the Chaplain was beside her, holding her by the wrist and patting her hand and whispering softly.

    The girl had just turned eighteen, so this was her first time participating in this part of the Feast. There was nothing strange about her nervousness - I remembered the first experiences of my older siblings who were so sure that it would be no challenge to them at all, yet when the time came lingered uneasily in front of the golden bowl, trembling from the hyperbolic horrors of their own imagination. I had watched them and trembled also, imagining that it was I, not them, who stood there.

    I sighed. Yes, I should¡¯ve stood there too by now. But on my first Feast as an eighteen year old my parents took me aside and said that the Chaplain simply would not have it. They explained that one of my hearts was an organ of corruption that pumped miasma, not blood, into my veins. And if we were to let it mix with the rest of the sacrificial blood, at the very least it would unsettle the Goddess and, worse yet, it might bring illness to the village. This is not a risk that the Chaplain would be willing to take.

    So when the rest of the village lined up and mingled their blood in honour of Asmara, I stood apart from them and flushed with shame.

    It was this that finally made me approach the Chaplain and have him accept me as a helper. I was hopeful of my progress and so, a year later: ¡°Chaplain, would you allow me to participate in the blood sacrifice?¡±

    The Chaplain spoke from behind me. ¡°Ah, Gustav, you know I can¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°...I served Asmara well, didn''t I?¡±

    The Chaplain walked up next to me. He sounded somewhat apologetic when he said, ¡°It¡¯s not that. Your mind might be dispelled, but your body? You understand, don¡¯t you.¡±

    ¡°You really don¡¯t believe that I could change this?¡±

    He hesitated. ¡°We are not the Goddess, nor are we the High Priest to speak of Her intentions, so does it matter whether or not I believe that you can be saved?¡±

    ¡°So you don¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve told you before, no, I don¡¯t. In all my years, all the priests I¡¯ve known, none would have believed it either.¡±

    I didn¡¯t respond. I stared at the cottages, the gravel path, the wildflowers, the blue sky and a black cat sleeping on a cart, its fur rusting in the sunlight, and I saw none of it, not really. Valdemar was already gone from view. The Chaplain put his hand on my shoulder. ¡°But we could be wrong. There might be a way, if you just hold faith. Maybe.¡±

    Maybe.

    Useless.

    Now the girl finally found her courage. I watched as the Chaplain took a knife and made a small incision in the side of her hand. She was still pale but as drops of her blood fell into the bowl, her fear visibly gave way to relief, and maybe even pride.

    I could not share in these feelings of hers, or that sense of community that came now as she walked back to her family and friends, a gleam in her eyes. But this was not the only way to ¡®hold my faith¡¯ and, as a condolence, the Chaplain put me to a different task.

    Once the human blood offerings came to an end, we would host a ceremonial slaughter of Beata¡¯s cow, and share its meat with the entire village. As a sign of goodwill the Chaplain - or in this case, myself - would go to every house and deliver the portions by hand. Given the Chaplain¡¯s pointed distaste for muddying his robes all the while carrying the meat and talking pleasantries to every household, I questioned somewhat whether he wanted me to do this for my own good or his. Regardless, I was not displeased; this meant that I would visit Valdemar¡¯s house, and have a chance at making his proper acquiantance.

    Where is he, anyway? I thought, and looked around. I did not see him in the line. The only people other than myself to not give blood were the children, the elderly, and the infirm. I frowned. Was he ill? Or¨C

    Someone touched my arm. I turned and Asmara must¡¯ve heard my prayers for there was Valdemar, his dark eyes sparkling in the sunlight. He smiled sheepishly. ¡°You are the Chaplain¡¯s apprentice, right?¡± he asked, ¡°I was hoping we could talk.¡±

    I was in such shock that I could¡¯ve fallen to my knees in thanks to the Goddess. I stared at him and tried to reconcile this with the event of the other day, when Valdemar barely deemed to glance my way. I must¡¯ve taken a moment too long to respond, because he added, ¡°...is that alright?¡±

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    ¡°Of course, yes!¡± I exclaimed, and it didn¡¯t even cross my mind to correct him that I wasn¡¯t an apprentice.

    He led me away from the chapel to a shaded spot under a tree. ¡°My grandfather advised me to speak to the Chaplain about a misconception he seems to have of me." He said, "but he seems busy, and I suppose talking to you would yield the same result."

    "What misconception?"

    "The Chaplain told my grandfather that I am not to attend the blood sacrifice. I don¡¯t understand why not."

    ¡°Are you under eighteen?¡± I blurted, and immediately realised that was a stupid thing to ask. He raised an eyebrow. ¡°I mean, sorry, of course not. Are you maybe ill?¡±

    ¡°...not that I¡¯m aware of. Unless the Chaplain can see what I cannot?¡± He looked at me quizzically, and I couldn¡¯t tell whether he was asking seriously or in mockery. I shook my head.

    ¡°To be honest,¡± I said, ¡°He¡¯s probably just upset with you.¡±

    Valdemar frowned.

    ¡°I think he didn¡¯t like what you said to him in the chapel - he¡¯s very petty.¡± I said, because I couldn¡¯t think of any other reason for his exclusion. It seemed plausible; the Chaplain had a history for abusing his authority for the sake of petty revenge. But it was cruel to do this to a newcomer. At the same time I could not deny that the revelation brought me a little pleasure - if Valdemar had been allowed to participate, he would not have spoken to me.

    The young man shrugged, as if it all mattered very little to him. ¡°If that is all, then it¡¯s alright. What about you?¡±

    ¡°Me?¡±

    ¡°Are Chaplain¡¯s apprentices excluded from offering their blood?¡±

    ¡°I- I¡¯m not his apprentice.¡± I stammered.

    ¡°No?¡± He eyed me suspiciously.

    ¡°But don¡¯t worry, I know just as much! That is, about the Chaplain¡­¡± I said, and felt my face grow hot under his gaze. I didn¡¯t want him to know of my curse, because for all my hopes I had no real way to know whether he¡¯d think different from the rest - what if even in the distant lands of Woltair they believed the same things? Yet if I didn¡¯t tell him, he would find out from the other villagers soon enough.

    I tried not to look at him. ¡°I¡¯m not allowed to participate because my blood is corrupt.¡±

    ¡°How can it be corrupt?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m cursed by birth to become a vrykolakas.¡± I said, watching for his reaction. ¡°It means that I will rise after death and kill everyone I love.¡±

    Valdemar cast his eyes over me, head to toe, as he evaluated my words. ¡°But that curse, as you call it, comes after death? Yet you are alive, so wherein lies the corruption now?¡± He asked.

    ¡°I was told that I have two hearts, and one of them pumps evil blood that will turn me into a vrykolakas¡­¡± I trailed off.

    ¡°But? I can tell there is a ¡®but¡¯.¡±

    ¡°But I can only ever hear one heart. Not two.¡±

    Suddenly, Valdemar stepped forward and put his hands on my chest. I froze, breath catching in my throat. At this distance I noticed that he had freckles, very faint but there, and blond eyelashes that matched his hair. We stood still for a few seconds and then he said, ¡°I can only feel one beating, too.¡± A pause. ¡°Though it is unusually fast.¡±

    I recoiled from his touch and I was sure that my face turned red. He stared at me, wide-eyed, and I realised that I was overreacting, clutching my hands to my chest like a scandalised maiden. I pretended to be fiddling with my tunic and averted my gaze. The blades of grass at our feet suddenly looked quite interesting.

    ¡°Do you believe in this curse yourself?¡± Asked Valdemar, and I could swear that there was a trace of laughter in his voice.

    I braved a glance at him. ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Are you not the one to whom this body belongs? Do you not know it best? So, do you believe what others say of that which is within yourself?¡±

    I fell silent. My heart was still racing and I was thinking of all the nights I lay in bed, listening to it and thinking of the Goddess, and how could I possibly have said that I didn¡¯t believe? They all said that I was doomed, and in my earliest memory I already knew it too.

    And what if it wasn¡¯t true? Would it really matter now, when there was no way to really know? Surely, there was something to these beliefs - a history, a foundation of reason, of truth. They could not have come from nowhere.

    Valdemar ran a hand through his hair, seeming a little exasperated. ¡°Nevermind, don¡¯t worry about it. What do you say we have a ceremony of our own?¡±

    I gasped. ¡°On our own? But¡­¡±

    ¡°Hm? Is there some rule against doing it without the Chaplain?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think so, but¡­¡± I faltered. ¡°We¡¯re not supposed to. And I need to go back, to help with the cow-¡±

    ¡°Even though you¡¯re not an apprentice?¡±

    ¡°The Chaplain said it¡¯ll show my faith.¡± I said. Valdemar didn¡¯t look satisfied with this answer, his eyes narrowing slightly, so I ventured to ask,"And aren¡¯t you afraid? After what I¡¯ve told you?¡±

    ¡°I think we¡¯re quite the same - held back by the standards of a rickety old man - I don¡¯t see what there is to be afraid of. Well?¡±

    I hesitated. I looked at Valdemar, his hair gleaming in the sunlight, a pleasant smile across his face, his long eyelashes golden like sunbeams. Then I turned my head towards the Chapel, where I could see that the line of villagers had already dispersed into a disorganised crowd, and I knew that now the cow would be brought forward for slaughter.

    If I went back there, if I mounted a mule and rode across the village, handing out pieces of meat, would Goddess Asmara take notice, would she have pity on me, would she, when the time came, accept me into her earthly embrace?

    There might be a way, if you held faith.

    Maybe.

    But my skin burned where Valdemar had touched me over my clothes, and I could hear him beckoning, behind me, ¡°Come, Gustav.¡± So easily, so simply he said my name, and I loved the way it sounded in his foreign lilt. I¡¯d never even introduced myself to him.

    And anyway, didn¡¯t the Chaplain say so himself?  It did not matter what they thought.

    Together, we left the village and headed for the fields.

 4. Predestination

    There is an undefeated majesty to trees. They harbour so much life within themselves. Worms and birds and lichen, in their bark and in their hollows and in their fruits. Trees shelter and bring forth life, and we consume them and all this life that they produce as we sit under their shade and think nothing at all.

    As a child my mother scolded me for eating apple seeds - she threatened that a tree would grow out of me. More realistically, I know, the cyanide in those little things might poison me. But I like to think that she was speaking the truth; that one day I will feel something rustling in the pit of my stomach, then tearing through me and emerging, shiny green and nourished, out of me. I will die and it will be new life, not death, that will be my legacy.

    So, I still eat apple seeds.

    Valdemar idly ran his hand across the lower branch of an apple tree, its new leaves still scattered and small.

    ¡°It¡¯s a good tree.¡± I said, foolishly it seemed, because he cocked an eyebrow in response.

    ¡°Right, let¡¯s get on with it.¡± He smiled. ¡°How do we start?¡±

    ¡°Start?¡± I blinked. It dawned on me suddenly that Valdemar likely didn¡¯t know a single thing about the Feast - did they even have any religious events in Woltair? It was such a strange, diverse land, that I imagined their festivals to be a mixture of every God in the sky. ¡°Well,¡± I said, ¡°we need a figure representing Asmara.¡±

    Valdemar spun on his heel, scanning the fields as if he expected to just find the Goddess lying around amongst the empty, unsown soil. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you have one on hand?¡±

    ¡°No. We have a small one at home, but I can¡¯t go get it now¡­¡±

    ¡°Why do we need the figure anyway?¡±

    ¡°To hold the bowl.¡±

    ¡°And the bowl because?¡±

    ¡°To collect the blood of the community, before it is poured into the soil for Asmara.¡±

    Valdemar hummed thoughtfully. ¡°But there are only the two of us here, we don¡¯t need a bowl to collect anything. And if Asmara takes from the soil, and so the figure is only a symbol, then we don¡¯t need that either. Isn¡¯t that right?¡±

    I looked away, sheepish. My own knowledge of the Feast and its meanings were mediocre at best, for the Chaplain had never taken it upon himself to explain the reasons for what we do - and what did the common man care for what was a symbol and what was not? Years ago, people watched in awe as the previous High Priest slaughtered a manticore and made a spectacle of its flowing blood, and now the same people laugh and applaud the displays of floral, peaceful magic that High Priest Caine organises for a Feast once drenched in gore.

    And the village found beauty in its single, golden bowl.

    ¡°So, what else?¡± He asked, breaking my line of thought. ¡°A knife?¡±

    ¡°A knife.¡± I agreed. ¡°But I don¡¯t have that either.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not a problem.¡± Said Valdemar, and pulled out a small knife from his inner jacket pocket. Its downwards-curved blade was only four or so centimetres in length, its handle wooden and worn. He caught the slight surprise in my expression and twiddled the tool between his fingers. ¡°It¡¯s for wood carving.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡±

    ¡°It crossed my mind for a second that I should carve us an Asmara. But that¡¯d take a while, and I¡¯m conscious we don¡¯t have much time. I could show you sometime. If you¡¯d like.¡±

    ¡°Really!?¡± I exclaimed, then to reel in my excitement, ¡°Maybe. Sometime¡­¡±

    Valdemar took me by the wrist and placed the knife into my hand. ¡°Cut me first.¡±

    ¡°Huh? Why me?¡±

    ¡°Well, who else is there?¡±

    ¡°I mean, why not do it yourself?¡±

    He shrugged as if it were only obvious. ¡°The Chaplain did it for the others. Isn¡¯t that a part of the ritual?¡±

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    He was looking at me again in that way he did in the Chapel - judging, calculating, yet simultaneously dismissive of me, as if I was failing a test that I didn¡¯t know I was engaged for.

    ¡°I¡¯ve never cut anyone before.¡± I said, and it was true. ¡°You¡¯d really be better off doing it yourself.¡±

    But Valdemar, as I was quickly learning, was a stubborn creature not to be argued with by the likes of me. ¡°But you¡¯ve spent so much time with the Chaplain. You¡¯ve seen how he does it, haven¡¯t you? Take this as another way, as you called it, to show your faith.¡±

    And did that convince me? A little. I was acutely aware that I was shirking my duties to the Chaplain by being here; in turn, I did not fully believe that carrying this out without his permission was allowable in the eyes of Asmara.

    But I liked the way the Chaplain helped the villagers, the way they put all their trust into his hands as he guided them to a religious reverie achieved only through the steady fall of blood into the earth. For once, I wanted to feel trusted too.

    ¡°Fine. But don¡¯t blame me if it hurts.¡± I said.

    ¡°I expect nothing less.¡± Valdemar smiled pleasantly.

    He walked closer to the tree and rolled up his sleeve. I came to stand behind him and, gingerly, took him by the wrist. I noted the softness of his tanned, unblemished skin and found myself unable to do anything more than raise the knife - the weight of it in my hand was unfamiliar and threatening.

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± encouraged Valdemar.

    Reluctantly I pressed the tip of the knife into the side of his hand, just below the basal joint of the thumb. The blade must¡¯ve been sharpened recently - it broke the skin with ease, and Valdemar hissed as the cold metal met his flesh. I started to draw the knife onwards, but for some reason he took a step back, so his back was against my chest. I paused, wondering if this was already proving to be too much for the both of us.

    But there was no hint of hesitation in his voice when he said, ¡°Deeper, Gustav¡­ we¡¯ll be here all day at this rate.¡±

    So I held him tight and pushed deeper, feeling him tense up suddenly against me. He tilted his head back to rest on my shoulder, his pretty sun-kissed neck exposed and vulnerable. Beads of blood pooled at the tip of the knife and travelled down his hand, leaving a crimson trail as it dripped down into the soil.

    There was a prayer to be said here, a plea to the Goddess for something or other, but my head was full with the scent of his hair - hazelnut, vanilla, something else unique and wholly him - and the warmth of his shuddering body pressed against my chest. I listened to his trembling breaths and the pained hisses that he was trying hard to bite back, and I pushed down harder, wanting only to draw more of those sounds out of him.

    He let out a strained gasp; without thinking, I let go of his wrist and instead wrapped my arm around his waist, bent my head towards him to better hear his quickened pulse. ¡°Wait-¡± I think he said, but it was distant, like a voice from under the sea, and I was conscious that his waist was even thinner than I had imagined and it fit so well into my embrace.

    I was dimly aware that he was saying something, a desperate murmur¡­ enough¡­? And how sweet his voice was! Like harp music in the Chapel.

    He shoved my arm away and broke free from my hold.

    The sudden movement broke my reverie. I looked at Valdemar, saw that he looked pale and was staring at me with wide, frightened eyes. He held his hands clutched to his chest,  so I could not see what damage I might¡¯ve done, and a stupid thought crossed my befuddled mind; it¡¯ll be so difficult to wash the blood out of his clothes. I looked down at the knife then, a part of me somewhat surprised to see it still in my hand - some of the blood had seeped into the wooden handle, and a slim trail ran down the blade and into my palm.

    It all dawned on me so slowly - the confusion, the piecing together of what I¡¯d done mere moments ago, the dizzying sickness of realisation. I tasted metal.

    Oh, Goddess, was I going crazy?

    They will be abnormally pale, as if their blood was sucked in the night without a single wound left behind, and often too delirious to speak those ¡ª

    ¡°...Are you alright?¡±

    Valdemar was standing next to me again. Strange, he no longer looked pale, or frightened, and that shift in his demeanour only rattled me more. ¡°You did well.¡± He said.

    I shook my head. Even as he reassured me, he kept his damaged hand hidden.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I said, and my own voice sounded distant, wrong.

    ¡°Sorry?¡±

    It kept replaying in my mind - how I had lost myself.

    Was it his beauty, my want for him? The scent of his hair, the flexing of his muscles against my chest, the tilt of his head that made me wish he¡¯d turn towards me a little more so our ritual could be sealed with a kiss? Even though I recognised the joke of it all; a man I hadn¡¯t spoken to before today, a man I¡¯d only watched for a week, a man whose nineteen years were spent across the ocean, dancing to music I¡¯d never heard, and yet I dared¡­?

    But maybe it was not him. Did it matter that it was him? The knife sank into his flesh and the pain it drew out had captivated me, ensnared me into the very trap that had been promised me since birth. Maybe, if I listened now, I would be able to hear the shudders of a second heart in motion.

    How it all made me sick.

    ¡°I need to go back - the cow. I¡¯m sorry.¡± I said to him, though we both must¡¯ve known that it was too late for that.

    Valdemar looked like he wanted to say something else, and maybe he did, but I had already turned and walked - no, ran, I must¡¯ve ran - through the fields, the trees, and the horrors of a predestination that, until then, I had never truly learned to fear. `

 5. Mosaic

    To me the incense and the Goddess were almost as one; I never felt her presence as strongly as when kneeling on the chapel floor, my entire being engulfed by the heavy smoke that drifted up from the incense burners by the altar.

    The scent sank into the wooden pews and the dark stone walls; the swirls of smoke came to serpentine life as they floated by the stained glass window at the end of the chapel. There was Asmara, her body a mosaic in rainbow pieces, sitting with her knees folded under her, a delicate white flower held in hand. Below, upon the altar, a chalice filled with sacred Earth, once a part of her, once the soil that she danced upon, now a relic to grasp in your hands as you spoke your prayers - but I never dared to.

    Yes, I knelt on the cracked tiles and murmured my prayers, and the incense was a shroud of comfort upon my body and soul. Like tides eroding the shore, it washed away all my thoughts of blood and death and beautiful dark eyes, and I was but an object among objects in the peace of the chapel.

    But cool air was seeping in from between the stones - it was cold outside, miserable, the final retaliations of a dying winter fighting a losing war - and I could not suppress a shudder.

    I had wondered, once, why chapels were so cold. Was it so that we would not fall into complete placidity, thinking ourselves more secure from our mortal toils than we truly were? Was it a reminder from the Goddess to not place our burdens in the hands of others, to not close our eyes to the reality of our lives?

    One day I spoke these thoughts aloud and my sister said, quite simply, ¡°Why? Because it¡¯s a large, empty space built of stone. Of course it¡¯s cold.¡±

    My sister, always so straight-forward.

    The day I left Valdemar in the fields, I snuck home consumed by conflicting emotions. I had no wish to face my family, or anyone else - I was certain that anyone who looked at me would see regret engraved in my eyes. They would see, and they would condemn.

    So I went round the back of my house, and hoisted myself up through the window into my room. My feet had barely touched the ground when I heard my sister¡¯s tinny voice. ¡°You know, mama will have your head on a pike.¡±

    She was sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, red balls of yarn splayed out around her like guts after a carnage. She hadn¡¯t even looked up from her knitting. ¡°Where were you?¡±

    ¡°Asta¡­¡±

    ¡°One moment you were hanging back, staring at the Chaplain like he held your whole life in his hands, and the next - poof! Gone. Mama noticed and got all upset. You know how she is. I told her that you were probably nervous, thinking of all the blood, the meat, how it scared you and that you needed to go mentally prepare, etcetera. That calmed her somewhat. See? I even covered for you.¡± Asta looked up, as if to gauge the appreciation she expected from me. ¡°Oh!¡± She gasped, ¡°You look ghastly. So you really were afraid, then.¡±

    ¡°...I wasn¡¯t afraid.¡± I muttered, closing the window behind me.

    ¡°No matter. But tell mama you were afraid.¡±

    ¡°And why would I do that? You don¡¯t think she¡¯ll let me off, do you?¡±

    ¡°She won¡¯t.¡± Asta shrugged. ¡°But at least it will reassure her.¡±

    I watched as she stood up and gathered up her yarns, a thin smile plastered across her face. She left without another word and, as the door creaked shut behind her, I sank to my knees and prayed.

    And so I prayed now.

    It would have been so much easier if I was indeed afraid. If what I felt holding Valdemar¡¯s wrist in my hand was only anxiety, if the blood running down the blade had only made me falter, made me fear.

    If only I had stopped and told him, no, do it yourself. I am not the Chaplain and I am afraid to hurt you, just as I am afraid to hurt myself.

    Blood flowed freely in my veins and it never touched the soil. Yet I had dreamed of a soil drenched in it, a flowing river of crimson that ran through the fields and down into the village. I held a knife in one hand, yet I could not tell you what it looked like, and a mutilated heart in another, chunks of it stuck between my teeth. A grave stood behind me, alone in its despair.

    Oh Earthen Mother, I beg for your patience in this time of strife and tribulation. I seek refuge and peace within your presence, and ask that you guide me toward a future that ends in your embrace. I offer myself to you, willing to learn and grow from my troubles. I know that your wisdom will bring me strength, so that I may face the challenges ahead and prosper in your light.

    ¡°And may the world be as free as a cherry blossom flying through the air. Yes?¡± Said a voice behind me.

    ¡°No, that¡¯s not it.¡±

    I was too consumed in prayer - I had not heard him coming. Not the echoes of steps walking over the tiles, not even as much as a creak of the door. If I had, maybe I would have panicked and sought a refuge, some hiding place that surely did not even exist. Would I have embarrassed myself again? But instead he came to me undetected, and so I stayed kneeling and staring at the wooden figure of Asmara straight ahead, hoping that he did not sense my unease of facing him again, that he did not realise just how conscious I was of his closeness to me now.

    ¡°Hm. Must be Prentirose¡¯s prayer then.¡± He said, casually.

    ¡°The Goddess of the Seasons?¡±

    ¡°Of Seasons - of Change. Woltair¡¯s new King decreed her as the Kingdom¡¯s reigning Goddess.¡±

    I did not understand why he was saying all this. ¡°I didn¡¯t know they had a new King.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s only been a year. Do you know the first thing he changed after becoming King?¡±

    I shook my head.

    ¡°He legalised brothels.¡±

    ¡°Pft-¡± I could not suppress a laugh.

    ¡°Ah!¡± Valdemar exclaimed, and I could hear the smile in his voice. ¡°So you still have some happiness left in you. I was worried - you disappeared. Where were you these last few days?¡±

    ¡°...I was grounded.¡±

    My mother was enraged. My father made it clear that my behaviour did not surprise him. They had always been a pairing brewing in conflict, and my actions sowed new seeds in fertile soil. My brother blamed me, my sister only sighed and went on knitting, and I was torn between guilt and that gnawing, helpless feeling of if not over me, there would be the same conflict over something, anything else.

    The Chaplain did not reproach me, yet it was his disappointment that I sensed most keenly. He looked at me with such resignation that, as soon as I was able to leave my house again, I applied myself relentlessly to chores and prayer in the chapel. As if I felt sorry for him. As if I thought that he, of all people, had had some faith in me - but I knew better than to believe that. It was only assistance that he wanted, a rest for his weary bones and painful back. Was it not time for him to retire? Who will take his place? A new Chaplain from somewhere far away, a drop of fresh blood to mix and dissolve and become one with the village¡­

    ¡° I considered going to your house,¡± said Valdemar. ¡°To apologise to you.¡±

    ¡°¡­To me?¡±

    ¡°Aren¡¯t you mad at me?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re the one who should be mad!¡± I pleaded, shocked that he would even think otherwise. I turned to face him, to scan his expression for any trace of irony, but there was none. Just that same clear and intelligent gaze. ¡°After what I - after what happened.¡±

    He quirked an eyebrow. ¡°And what happened? You did what I asked¡­but it has shaken you!¡± He knelt down beside me. ¡°I think I know what you are thinking now. I could dispel your fears, or at least some of them, if you are willing to listen.¡±

    ¡°How?¡±

    ¡°Something¡¯s happened to me once.¡± He said softly, ¡°and because of it I don¡¯t believe all these superstitions surrounding you.¡±

    My heart skipped a beat. I met his eyes - tiny rainbow reflections shimmered in their darkness, beautiful pupils dimmed by smoke - and I knew that he was speaking the truth. ¡°Please,¡± I whispered, ¡°Tell me.¡±

    ¡°I will. But isn''t it cold down here? Let¡¯s talk in the pews.¡±

    I tried to stand, but my legs were more numb than I had thought. I swayed, almost stumbled, and Valdemar reached out to steady me. I found myself holding him by the hand and drew a breath when my fingers brushed a raised, red scar running down to his wrist. I looked up at him, imploring apologies about to spill from my lips. But he just smiled as he so often did, and said, ¡°It¡¯s really not that bad.¡±

    We sat down together in one of the middle pews. Valdemar tapped his fingers on the worn wood, looking at me thoughtfully. "Do you know much about the West Region?" He asked.

    I thought about it for a bit. ¡°It¡¯s the part of Woltair that borders Feryon... I¡¯ve heard it¡¯s very militarised.¡±

    He nodded. ¡°Yes. It is also rich in resources - my father made deals with local miners, weavers, and craftsmen, and sold the goods here, in Aquir. There¡¯s not really anything more to it than that. What I am trying to say is that it is not a part of Woltair that people seek out for leisure, nor are the locals any more familiar with nobility than you are.

    But a year ago, to the delight of every gossip in the vicinity, a few nobles did come. Nix, Callisto, Clement, Aria. They were siblings, children of some minor nobles from the capital. They told me their family name was De Ross, but it was the first and only time I¡¯d ever heard it spoken.¡± He sighed. ¡°They thought that it would be a splendid adventure to vacation out in the fringes of the West Region, so close to the border and so far from their usual commodities - and the girls so wanted to see the soldiers! They bought a remote cottage in the mountains. It seems they entertained themselves quite well for a bit, but they were nobles and they quickly felt what it meant to lack a servant.

    Nix went down to the market in search of someone suitable, and it so happened that on that day I was there too. She saw me - she said I¡¯m pretty. She said that, if I waited on them, she would pay me well.¡± Valdemar hesitated and raised his eyes to the ceiling. ¡°To be honest, I needed that money badly, so I agreed without a thought.¡±

    He needed money? I thought back on how I imagined him before; attending balls, drinking absinthe, carefree and blessed by the lucky hand of fate. And his manner, subtly refined, only strengthened this image. I wanted to know, now, how it really had been and why. But his tale was far from over. I put my questions away for later.

    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    ¡°I spent most of my days, then, going back and forth between their cottage and the city - I bought whatever they wanted, found amusements for them, called on soldiers¡¯ doors with invitations in hand and escorted the girls whenever their brothers could not be bothered to accompany them. I was meant to go home in the evenings, but Nix often held me back.

    The night would deepen and I would stand in the corner of their living room and listen to Aria playing the piano, Nix playing card games with Callisto, and Clement playing other games with the women he brought. That was the crux of it. Clement and his women. He gave off the air of a cold intellectual but he burned with an insatiable passion for romance and all the manipulations that, he insisted, went hand-in-hand.

    He seduced women with no thought to their age or social standing and, within a day or two, tossed them out. Every one of these women was convinced that she was ¡®the one¡¯ and even after being brushed off by him, they would delude themselves into thinking that it was all just part of some elaborate courting ritual. Others would fall into a heartbroken despair. A few times I was cornered in the marketplace, and they pleaded with me - they were ruined, what were they to do? It disgusted me how Clement¡¯s siblings found all this to be funny. Once, they suggested that he should expand his horizons with me.¡±

    ¡°Oh. Did he?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Of course not!¡± said Valdemar. ¡°He only had eyes for girls. And if only you had seen the final one he brought back. I wouldn¡¯t even need to explain; I¡¯m sure you¡¯d have felt the same as I did.¡±

    ¡°...Passion?¡± I ventured, and felt a twinge of jealousy at the thought.

    He looked askance at me. ¡°Foreboding.

    The siblings¡­they did not feel the same way. This girl was the most petite, delicate little thing, much like those expensive dolls that kids play with. Clement, lacking in imagination, called her exactly that; his little doll. He meant it as a compliment but I saw it differently; she gestured with artificial grace, as if her every move was done in mimicry, and beside the naturally high-class bearing of Aria and Nyx she was stiff as a block of wood.

    What drew Clement to her, however, was her strikingly white hair, and eyes red like apples. He introduced her to us like a collector would his proudest artefact. Even so, we all assumed that she would last no longer than the rest. He would dine with her, read her a book of poetry, employ all those insincere charms, and then he¡¯d bed her and throw her away.

    We did not expect her to be so difficult.

    She smiled at his poetry - softly, politely - and she got excited over Clement¡¯s skill at cards - like a child - and she let him twirl her in a waltz round the room, but all the while I got the sense that there was something else she sought. She slipped odd little questions into conversations, asking after our histories and religious inclinations, our health¡­ She had lumped me in with the De Ross at first, often staring at me over her hand of cards, or catching my eye as Clement dipped her so low that her short hair brushed the floor. But one day Nix let slip that I was just a local boy, and her interest in me was gone just like that.

    She drew clear boundaries.

    She let Clement kiss her hand in gentlemanly greeting. She let him dance with her, to curl his arm around her waist. But when at dinner he reached under the table to stroke her thigh, she stood and complained of a mosquito crawling down her leg. When he tried to kiss her in the twilight, she turned her cheek and laughed. Clement, unused to rejection, was astonished, and his siblings joined the girl in laughter.

    When she left, Clement sighed with some exasperation, and assured his audience that this was just a girl playing hard-to-get, and that she¡¯d give in soon enough.

    He redoubled his efforts. His voice dripped with saccharine, his lips lingered at her hand as if loathe to part, his gaze followed her and her alone. With every word and gesture Clement spoke - I love you, I adore you, I worship you. A siren calling a sailor to his demise.

    Yet days passed, and she remained as resistant as ever.

    "He''s growing impatient." Remarked Callisto after one such visit, and we could tell it was true. A woman not falling into Clement''s arms was something beyond his comprehension, and the merry mockery of his siblings only rubbed salt into the wound.

    Aria sang at the piano - A broken-hearted jester, off to join the circus¡­ and then the girls laughed at him some more.

    Callisto didn''t laugh with them. He watched his sisters with worry.

    The following evening the girl called on us once more, and from the way that Clement immediately leapt up from the couch and rushed to the door, we knew that something had shifted in him. He fell to his knees and kissed her hand with such fervour that we thought him mad, or in love.

    He invited her to play cards. Usually, he took this game with good humour. The girl was not good at cards. He let her win to see her smile and to snake his way into her affections. But there was a strange passion in him that night; he did not let her win a single game, swiftly taking victory in every match, and his teasing remarks swayed dangerously on the line of insult. Aria was giggling where she sat on the sofa. Nix shook her head and sighed. The girl, meanwhile, kept her expression well-hidden behind a mask of indifference.

    After an excruciating hour of this, Clement rose from his chair and invited the girl to dance. Aria, obediently, sat down at her piano and began to play. Clement led the girl slowly round the room, as if it were a stage and we were the audience to his game (and so we were). Then he pulled her in, put his hand upon her waist, and they fell into the familiar steps of a waltz.

    I turned away, and busied myself with tidying the table - empty plates, a stain on the cloth - the routine actions and familiar music letting me sink into the depths of my own inward thoughts. I was often preoccupied in those days. Sometimes I still am.

    I brought in a bottle of wine and poured it into Callisto¡¯s glass, then Aria¡¯s, then Nix¡¯s. As I filled her glass, she leaned in and whispered, ¡°Just don¡¯t get distracted, now¡­¡± she looked away, and I followed her gaze back to the dancers.

    Instantly I saw that it was going very wrong.

    They danced as always, following Clement¡¯s naturally elegant lead, the girl¡¯s skirts whirling round them at a mesmerising pace. But I saw the slightest strain in the girl¡¯s carefully arranged expression, and thought that I heard her let out a wince that was lost in the backdrop of piano music. Clement¡¯s fingers gripped her waist tight. His knuckles were white.

    He took her around the room, invading her space with his steps, almost tripping her as he forced them closer together - she stumbled a little, and spread her legs wider apart so that she would not step on his shoes. Another whirl and he dipped her down to the floor, their bodies crushed together, her spine curved obscenely like a bowstring pulled taut.

    Her knees buckled under him and they collapsed to the floor.

    Aria paused her playing and we all watched them with a dreadful curiosity. Clement had fallen atop the girl, who lay splayed out under him like a doll with cut strings. They were still for a long and horrible moment. Then he took her by the jaw and kissed her.

    The girl pushed at his chest, but Clement grabbed her wrists with one hand and pinned them to the ground. She twisted and struggled in his grip but she was so small compared to him. He barely even felt it.

    He ran his hand along her waist and up her skirts - and I know you don¡¯t want to hear this.¡±

    I shook my head slowly, stunned. Why was Valdemar telling me all this in the chapel, where the Goddess¡¯s glass eyes bore into us, where a stray breeze from the outside world ruffled his golden hair? What had this to do with me? ¡°I don¡¯t - I don¡¯t want to hear it.¡± I repeated after him. Shook my head again.

    ¡°You don¡¯t have to. He didn¡¯t get very far. Got too caught up in it, loosened his hold. She kicked him off and ran into another room, locked herself in. Aria and Nix were laughing again and Clement was trying to kick the door down. That is when Callisto, who sat quiet through it all, told me simply to go get some help.¡± He shrugged. ¡°So I went. I called out to the first men I saw, and together we ran back to the cottage. We were confident that we knew what we were going to see on opening the door. It required no stretch of the imagination. But, of course, we were wrong.

    The candles were extinguished, and someone had closed the curtains and sunk the cottage into a claustrophobic gloom. The place was silent. We stood in the threshold for an uncertain moment until one of the braver soldiers took it upon himself to walk across the room and light a candle.

    And in the rays of a flickering fire we saw walls streaked with blood.

    It was as though someone had taken a brush and rolled paint across the walls in feverish, abstract madness. There was blood on the floor too, a thick trail of crimson that ran along into the next room, the room where the girl had locked herself in. The door stood wide open, and within we could just about make out the dark shape of a male figure.

    I called out to it, called it by Callisto¡¯s name. It did not move, and I hadn¡¯t truly expected it to. I think I just couldn¡¯t take the silence.

    After casting weary looks at one another, the soldiers and I tread onwards.

    Right opposite the door, pushed against the wall, was a bed. On the bed sat the figure, a sad, hunched over lump of shadows. It leaned against the wall and did not react to our proximity. There was something strange about it, its huddled form. I stepped closer and reached out to take it by the shoulder when the soldier, the devoted seeker of light, brought in a candle.

    I jumped back and the other soldier drew his sword. The torso - for that¡¯s what it was, not a body, but a trunk of a thing - was headless, armless, legless. Its chest had been ripped open, the cavity a gaping maw curtained by carelessly torn flaps of clothing and flesh. The rib cage was cracked wide open and turned outwards. Guts spilled down the bed and to the floor, a waterfall of intestines, glimmering wetly in the candlelight. Playing cards were arranged on the bed in a game of solitaire.

    Later, when we found in ourselves the spirits to do so, we explored the rest of the cottage. Every newly lit candle exposed some fresh, grotesque scene. We found two more torsos, belonging to Nix and Aria no doubt, similarly limbless. The limbs were scattered across the cottage, some hidden, some in plain sight. Under the table or affixed to the wall, or as in one instance just a little finger shoved brutally into a keyhole. In all cases, however, in contrast to the stained walls, the appendages were completely bloodless. As if they had been wrung dry.

    What we didn¡¯t find was the girl. Or Callisto. I was not certain if the soldiers knew the siblings personally, if they even knew to miss Callisto. I did not tell them.

    What we saw before us was an art gallery of imaginative cruelty that required considerable strength to carry out. The soldiers were confused when I described the girl to them. They could not wrap their minds around it. Who else could have done this, if not her, the one missing variable? Who else? Maybe I could have - I know they entertained the idea for at least a while, as contradictory as it might have been.

    If I told them about Callisto they would have thought it was him; but I knew that was impossible.

    We left the scene and, well, that was that. They did suspect me, but suspicions were soon cleared and I did not risk involving myself any further in the proceedings. I don¡¯t think that they ever caught her, though. Do you see?¡±

    ¡°No, how do you know it was her?¡± I asked, ¡°You said so yourself. She was small. She got easily overpowered by Clement. I don¡¯t¡­¡± he was staring at me. ¡°I don¡¯t see.¡± A half-hearted lie.

    He continued slowly. ¡°Before we came here, when my mother and I were at the port for a ship to Aquir, I saw Callisto again. He stood a distance away, his clothes different from the noble attire I remembered him in - luxurious, but in a way that implied employment rather than entitlement. I knew that it was him, but his hair was white and his eyes were red and he stood alone. He was a masculine mirror of that doll-like girl. He did not see me. Instantly I understood it, Gustav, he is - he became just like her.

    Maybe that is why, all along, she questioned our health and locality and all else. She was seeking a worthy candidate and, clearly, found it in him.¡±

    ¡°And you think she¡­I¡­¡±

    ¡°Point is - she is one of those creatures that you think you are doomed to become. But think about it. It was not her loved ones that she rose to kill - she acted in retaliation to a horrid attack against her. She did not look like a corpse, either, and I doubt that she sleeps in her grave at night. And will it rest your heart if I add that all the livers were left intact? See, she is nothing like what you and the village expects.¡±

    ¡°But she was all too cruel.¡±

    ¡°No, it was only just. She played with their bodies as they would have played with hers. Why do you shudder? It was not cruel.¡±

    ¡°I was cruel to you.¡±

    ¡°You only did what I had asked.¡±

    ¡°I hurt you.¡± and I felt such pleasure in it.

    Valdemar leaned in and softly, unhesitatingly, he ran his finger down the length of my jaw. ¡°Ah, but I told you; I expected nothing less.¡±

    That feeling, again, of my heart constricting in my chest. Of my world narrowing down to the depths of his eyes, the reflections of glass mosaics in his pupils and myself, myself in all my bare-faced surprise staring back at me. The sensation of his scar burned on my fingertips, as if I held his hand still.

    I was lightheaded, I realised, from kneeling for hours, from his story that had only just barely started sinking in, from the incense that shrouded the tiny chapel and soaked into my clothes. From the way he smiled at me, a smile that hinted at truths that evaded me but were known to him.

    Heavy steps on the tiled floor. The chaplain¡¯s voice; ¡°So, like this you pray, Gustav? And you!¡±

    Slowly, Valdemar retracted his hand. He stood, and bowed with a flourish. ¡°Chaplain, I am glad you have come. We were discussing the chapel, and got stuck on the point of incense. Such heavy use of it in this enclosed space makes one quite delirious and overwhelmed. I presume that is an effect beneficial to your services?¡±

    ¡°Ask your grandfather, and see if he does not slap that fake smile off your face! Off with you, go!¡± I did not need to look at the Chaplain to know how red-faced he was already, how easily taunted.

    ¡°Of course, Chaplain, though I didn''t mean to upset you so.¡± said Valdemar with barely disguised amusement. To me, he said in a low tone, ¡°Think. Let those superstitions go and believe in me.¡±

    I watched him go. In his wake he left me an offering, an audacious trade - to exchange the village¡¯s superstitions for those of his own. I raised a hand to my face. I wanted to believe him.

    To be saved.

 6. Mundane

    The butcher, Klaus, was a kind albeit superstitious man. He spoke politely to me, treated me with the same respect that he would show to any close neighbour and customer, and tried his hardest to disguise how anxiously he clutched at the protective talisman in his pocket.

    His wife, a mean middle-aged woman, balanced out his professionalism with a dose of exaggerated disdain. This was not unusual - she, like many of the villagers, was quick to analyse my condition and draw the obvious conclusions.

    A vrykolakas came back to murder those who it held dearest. To protect yourself, therefore, you simply had to ensure that the creature never came to love you. I could hardly hold this reasoning against them, but it was insane for them to think that my affections could be so easily swayed.

    As I watched Klaus wrap up a cut of smoked beef - my family¡¯s portion from the Feast, prepared in anticipation of my married older sister''s visit - I thought back to the day before, to the gruesome story that echoed like blasphemy in Asmara¡¯s chapel.

    The stink of viscera on opening the cottage door, blood on the walls, nails scraping a wooden door, a man¡¯s hands clutching a tiny waist, small hands digging through his guts, and eyes red, red as a suit of hearts in solitaire. She did not love those she killed. She hurt them because they hurt her, an indisputable law of instinct.

    Could I do that too? If I rose with a vengeance, what if it was not those I loved that I haunted, what if I bypassed my family¡¯s home and crept into the beds of those who scorned me, the butcher¡¯s wife for example, and tore her to pieces? Her heavy heart in my hands, a river, a bloody river, and there would be no grave to tell - just a ditch in a field, at a crossroads, its contents rotting and alone.

    A cough. My head snapped up with a shock. Klaus was wiping his hands on his apron, my package neatly wrapped up on the table between us.

    What were those images, so cruelly swirling in my head? I don¡¯t want to do any of those things, I thought with shame and disgust.

    With shaking hands I thanked Klaus and took the paper-wrapped bundle. Its normally delicious smell sickened me. I left the butchery, my heart beating wildly, and walked towards home.

    But no, that wasn¡¯t all Valdemar said. She was so different. Yes, he said the superstitions were wrong. They are wrong. She was a real creature, he said, a creature that tore itself from the pages of myth and made itself real, a creature distorted by rumour, a creature that ate no livers and killed no loved ones (what if she killed them already, and only moved on further? Or what if she loved Clement, loved Nix, loved - no, that¡¯s impossible).

    I stopped.

    She was nothing like what we expected. So what did we know of myself, my own wretched fate? When was the last time there was a vrykolakas in our midst? I could not have been the only one to be born like this.

    Spoken as a threat, anonymous and ever-present, but vague, vague, vague.

    Repeating the same things as if they were a prayer.

    Never a single name to attach to those tales.

    Valdemar, beautiful Valdemar, his lips forming a name. Callisto. He was so much more real than any of this.

    -

    A humble feast was spread across the table. Potato soup, rye bread, the smoked beef from this morning cut into thin slices, and arranged on a chipped plate in the centre of the table, and salads of pickled vegetables - cucumbers, onions, beet, carrots and radishes. No tomatoes, though, as our mother was allergic.

    My older sister Laima was talking excitedly about the tomato plants that she, having married and moved out to live with her husband in a neighbouring village, was finally allowed to grow. Of my living siblings she and I shared the most physical similarities, our faces almost copies of each other. The same large, downward-tilted eyes, the same straight nose and black hair - whilst parts of these features were found in the rest of our family too, it was in us that they showed up the most fiercely, albeit hers were printed with a more delicate, feminine touch. I remembered her laughing, when we were children, that I could wear her frock, pretend to be her, and fight off all the boys that were teasing her. They would probably be too baffled to notice the little beauty mark that set me apart from her. Laima had always been a bright and silly girl, apparently too silly to care for her brother¡¯s strange curse.

    When she left us a few years back, I watched her go with pain in my heart and a childish abhorrence for the unremarkable man who stole her away.

    This man, Mantas, had brought a large and smelly chunk of cheese to the table, the result of one of his only interests in life -  dairy-farming. His one other interest that I was unfortunately aware of was his passion for staring shamelessly at me. I knew exactly why he did it, and was certain that the others had noticed it too but simply never cared enough to point it out. That day, however, I did not quite feel so peaceful.

    ¡°Something wrong, brother-in-law?¡± I asked, looking up at him. ¡°You¡¯ve been staring at me this entire time.¡±

    Laima shot her husband an irritated look.

    ¡°Er,¡± Mantas averted his gaze.

    ¡°Have you ever seen a vrykolakas?¡± I asked. My brother scoffed into his soup.

    ¡°...well, no, I wouldn¡¯t say I have.¡±

    ¡°Oh, and I guess there¡¯s nobody like me in your village either.¡± I maintained, ¡°But for now I¡¯m like any other person, so there¡¯s no need for you to look so amazed.¡±

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t looking at you,¡± he said warily.

    ¡°What were you looking at then? The wall?¡± I said and bit into a piece of cheese - I didn¡¯t think I could stomach any meat.

    ¡°Gustav, what¡¯s gotten into you? Leave him alone.¡± Laima interceded.

    ¡°He¡¯s just grumpy because he missed you, darling, we all have!¡± said my mother.

    ¡°He¡¯s mad he has to eat with us instead of playing with his new friend.¡± said Asta at the same time.

    They all looked at each other.

    ¡°What friend?¡± my father deigned to ask.

    Asta was more than happy to answer. ¡°That half-Woltairian boy staying with old Jon. He-¡±

    ¡°Oh, Woltair! I¡¯ve always dreamed of visiting!¡± Laima exclaimed, her husband¡¯s predicament instantly forgotten. ¡°Imagine! All that extravagance¡­¡±

    ¡°All that blasphemy, more like.¡±

    ¡°Blasphemy! Yes. I heard that the new King¡¯s baby was born oddly soon after his ascension last year¡­¡± Mantas said, still avoiding my gaze. And good riddance to that.

    ¡°Early births happen,¡± said my mother.

    Asta smiled deviously. ¡°Was it early, though?¡±

    My brother emerged from his bowl of soup to add, ¡°who cares? If you want to gossip, gossip about our leaders instead.¡±

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    ¡°Why, is there something to say about the High Priest?¡±

    Laima nodded. ¡°There must be! Vaiva (that¡¯s our neighbour) said that her sister¡¯s son, who is currently undergoing scout training in the capital, heard that High Priest Caine is ill!¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not interesting. Everyone gets ill. And isn¡¯t he kind of old?¡± said Asta.

    ¡°He¡¯s in his thirties, idiot.¡± said my brother.

    ¡°But High Priests always die quickly, so he¡¯s basically old.¡±

    ¡°Fifteen years¡­¡±

    ¡°He might die, that¡¯s true.¡±

    And with that they lapsed into a discussion of whether or not Caine should be considered old, and if this illness might indeed mean death. Why did the High Priests rarely survive more than a decade long reign, anyway?  Nobody knew, but this table of villagers was sure that, with the aid of homebrewed alcohol, they¡¯d soon figure it out.

    I took advantage of this moment to slip away from the table and leave the house before the conversation turned back to me or, worse yet, my friendship with Valdemar - friendship, could it even be called that? I doubted that he thought we were that close.

    Regardless, Mantas had served to embitter me further, and I strode to the village graveyard.

    It was quite out of the way; down a path past the chapel, and there came into view a grassy hill strewn with graves. I climbed my way to the top, a flat area which was crowded by a copse of trees and the surviving headstones so old that their engravings were illegible.

    I preferred that part of the cemetery; it was rarely visited, so the Chaplain liked me to go up there sometimes and set down candles or clear the fallen leaves. There were few people left who knew of those that lay in peace amidst the birch trees that grew tall in fertile soil. I dreamed of being buried, one day, in that solitary silence, surrounded by the ancient bones and ashen dust of humans I¡¯ve never known, far away from the three little graves down the slope, where my mother brought flowers and cried the tears of one impossible to console.

    I looked out to the graves below. Did all dead here rot by nature¡¯s laws, or were there some bodies still intact, swollen and drowning in blood that was not their own, kept at bay only by the clever machinations of mortal man? Oh, yes, there were ways to tie a monster to its funereal bed.

    When I was little, my father told me the tale of a long-dead Prince. He fled a Kingdom burning with rebellion and took the identity of a commoner, where he lived in peace for a while. But one day he fell ill and in a panic told the people that if he were to die, they had to behead him and put the skull somewhere he could not reach, else he would rise as a monster from his tomb. The people of that land had never heard of such a thing, and their bewilderment at his request spread so far that it reached the ears of the Prince¡¯s enemies, who knew of his curse and had been tracking him relentlessly. It is said that even when they found him and pressed a blade to his throat, the Prince pleaded not for his life but for his fate in death.

    I wasn¡¯t sure I believed that story. Maybe it was true, or maybe it was my father¡¯s own fabrication told with hope that, like the Prince, I will lay down and beg to be dismembered.

    Regardless, there was no way to tell if anyone in the village cemetery had suffered such a burial, or anything equivalent to it. There were no tombstones with ominous words etched into them. From the surface there was no way to tell what lay below.

    No way to tell who here had been a seventh child, a murder victim or suicide, or a baby born with a red caul, or a godless heathen who drowned in the local river, all ripe candidates to life as a vrykolakas.

    I lingered for a minute longer, half-expecting a sign of some sort. Something to confirm or deny everything that had been plaguing me since birth and now more so than ever before.

    But there was nothing.

    ¡ª

    Valdemar sat with his back against our tree, working away at a little block of wood he held in his hands. He looked up at me and smiled.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡± I asked, sitting down beside him. The ground was uncomfortably cold, but he didn¡¯t seem to care, so I tried not to either.

    ¡°As you can see, I¡¯m carving.¡± He held it up for me to see - the wood had already taken the rough but certain shape of a cat.

    ¡°Oh!¡± I gasped, finally remembering, ¡°I never gave you back your knife. It¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s in my room, I think.¡± I flushed at the memory of it, of how I ran away from him, taking his tool with me.

    Valdemar shrugged. ¡°I know. It¡¯s fine, just keep that one.¡± He ran a finger down the cat¡¯s back. ¡°Her name is Mixie. We left her back in Woltair.¡±

    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you take her with you?¡±

    ¡°Would a cat survive such a long voyage?¡± He asked, then, ¡°maybe she would have. But I had my hands full already¡­¡± a tinge of regret crept into his voice.

    ¡°But you left her with someone, didn¡¯t you? I¡¯m sure she¡¯s doing well.¡±

    ¡°Something like that, I suppose.¡±

    ¡°And you could always come back there for a visit.¡± I added meekly.

    He shot me a strange, piqued look, and I saw that it was the wrong thing to say.

    Valdemar continued working on his cat. We sat in silence for a little while, the only sounds around us were those of his knife chipping away at the wood, the distant voices of the villagers, and the tired chirping of birds. The sun had begun its downward descent, and I watched with mild interest as the sky turned slowly red.

    Suddenly, he set the cat down and turned to me. ¡°Did you think about it?¡± He asked.

    No context was needed. I nodded and hugged my knees to my chest. I had thought about it, indeed spent the majority of the day thinking about it, and as I gazed at the reddening sky I did not want to think of it any more, not today at least, I didn¡¯t want the sky to turn to blood before my eyes.

    ¡°I thought about it,¡± I said, my eyes on the clouds, ¡°I thought that you were wealthy in Woltair.¡±

    ¡°Why¡¯s that?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. I thought that you had many books and attended private academies, and that you went to balls and danced with ladies and drank absinthe all night long.¡±

    He laughed. ¡°That what¡¯s you thought of me? I¡¯m no aristocrat. I wasn¡¯t invited to balls and only rarely drank absinthe. But I did have a tutor for a while, that¡¯s true. Are you disappointed?¡±

    ¡°No, but it¡¯s strange. You look like you belong to that world.¡± I idly picked at a piece of grass. ¡°Strange to think that you are in mine.¡±

    ¡°I feel like I should be embarrassed by this, somehow.¡± Valdemar said without a trace of embarrassment. He tilted his head and regarded me thoughtfully. Then he stood up and, after brushing off stray pieces of grass from his clothes, said, ¡°But, you know, I can dance a waltz.¡±

    He held out his hand. Not quite understanding, I took it and let him drag me to my feet. ¡°Even though you didn¡¯t go to any balls?¡± I asked.

    A half-hearted shrug. ¡°Nix taught me. She thought it¡¯d be fun.¡± He said that name casually, but I felt a twinge of distaste at the mention of the dismembered woman. However, he didn¡¯t give me a chance to dwell on it, adding, ¡°I¡¯d like to teach you too.¡±

    I blushed. ¡°I don¡¯t think I could.¡±

    ¡°Why not?¡± he asked, and just for an instant I thought his gaze had turned cold.

    I didn¡¯t respond, truly not quite sure why not either, so Valdemar took my silence for assent and pulled me closer. He put his left hand on my shoulder. ¡°Place your hand on my waist.¡± He instructed. When I hesitated, he took my hand and guided it there himself. Then he locked our free hands together. ¡°This is our frame,¡± he said. ¡°We need to maintain this throughout the dance.¡±

    I nodded, vaguely shocked at the contact. A part of me struggled not to overlay the present with the memory of my arm wrapped around him, his blood dripping down my palm or, worse yet, Clement¡¯s predatory grip on that girl¡¯s waist.

    ¡°You¡¯ll lead.¡± Valdemar said.

    ¡°Huh? How?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not complex. I¡¯ll tell you the steps, and after a few sequences you¡¯ll get the complete hang of it.¡± He smiled broadly. ¡°And then you can lead us wherever you like. How¡¯s that sound?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think¨C¡±

    ¡°Then don¡¯t think. Didn¡¯t you wonder what life is like for those privileged Woltairians? I¡¯m offering you a chance to live a part of it, here, with me.¡± He looked quite serious as he said this, even if the smile didn¡¯t completely fall from his face.

    ¡°Alright,¡± I said. ¡°Teach me.¡±

    He showed me my steps, gently pulling me in the right direction when I seemed confused. He was right - it wasn¡¯t awfully difficult and after a few rotations I felt quite adept, if we were to disregard the times I stepped on his toes.

    His steps were graceful and loose, and he followed me with a self-assured discipline in tune with his demeanour. I enjoyed the freedom of taking us whichever way I liked, I let myself get absorbed in the pleasantly repetitive steps, and when he broke the frame and our chests pressed together, I felt that we were one being, one creature dancing away from the fields of the mundane.

    I dipped him down. His long, blond hair brushed the grass and he grinned at me, his eyes alight.

    The sun was setting behind us, bathing him in a deep orange glow and he looked like a fae, like a young god, like the sun itself came down from the skies to be held in my arms.

    I thought of nothing but him, nothing but how I could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath my hands, and the words slipped out unbidden, ¡°But why did I hurt you?¡± If I am not doomed, why was it so sweet?

    He blinked - his lashes threads of gold, more delicate than the embroidery on a prince¡¯s suit - and his smile widened. ¡°Because it wasn¡¯t the vrykolakas that wanted to do those things. It was you. Just you.¡± he said it simply, with that tell-tale ghost of dismissiveness so typical of him.

    As if it was nothing, as if it were only obvious. Just me.

 7. Necrosoil

    As the days passed by, winter died before our eyes. The trees sprouted waxy new leaves and the soil softened, freeing itself from the shackles of frost.

    The bare fields were now beginning to bustle with activity and horses were harnessed for ploughing.

    Further down, men were already in the midst of work, laughing good-heartedly amongst each other, even though their foreheads were slick with sweat and their muscles aching from the relentless exercise. It was demanding work, but the people were glad to emerge from a dreary, cold winter into the busy liveliness of spring.

    The Chaplain offered his support by blessing the fields with the blood sacrifices from the Feast. We walked along the edge of the fields, stopping every few metres to carefully measure out portions of blood from the bowl and dilute it with blessed water before pouring the solution into the field. As the kneeling Chaplain spun fervent prayers with every drop spilt, I stood behind him with the heavy water jug in my arms. I was beyond bored. I did not participate in his prayers, and instead chose to watch the people at work, which quickly proved to be just as dull.

    Until I saw the unmistakable, golden-maned figure in a distant field. Clearly, Valdemar had been working, too, but now he was at rest. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his tunic, for all the world looking quite unnaturally exhausted. He leaned against the wooden plough, his head upturned to the sun, chest heaving, and I felt an odd twinge of apprehension. He should not have been that tired already, not so early into the day. But maybe, I told myself, a boy unused to farmwork simply does not possess the stamina for it.

    A girl ran up to Valdemar. She said something to him, and pushed a handkerchief into his hand. He wiped his forehead with it and laughed. The girl did not go away and continued her chatter. I recognised her, of course, she was the one I saw at the Feast and many times before then, but I did not know her name and did not much care to know it. She seemed far too eager, running up to him like that.

    ¡°Help me up, boy.¡± said the Chaplain, and I wrenched my eyes away from the fields. The Chaplain rose to his feet with my support. ¡°Damn these knees.¡± He grumbled.

    ¡ª

    We established a routine. Every evening, without fail, we would meet up at the tree that I came to think of as our own. He would always be there before me, always sitting or leaning against the trunk and carving a piece of wood. And every time, when he saw me, he¡¯d smile.

    That one little dance changed something between us, loosened a knot of wariness in me that I didn''t even know existed. I could mostly relax, now, in front of his sunlit beauty, though I still could not claim to guess at his inner thoughts.

    Today, when he saw me coming toward him, he stood up and waved. He held a bottle in his hand.

    ¡°Busy day, Gustav?¡± Valdemar greeted me with his customary smile.

    ¡°The Chaplain dragged me along with him to bless the fields.¡±

    ¡°Really? Whatever¡¯s the point in that?¡±

    I frowned. ¡°So the soil would be healthy, and Asmara would help the crops grow.¡±

    ¡°Well! If She¡¯ll do that, then there is no need for us to work the fields, then, is there? Should have told me earlier. I¡¯d have slept in.¡±

    I did not like him to speak so carelessly of the Goddess, though it was not unusual for him to make such remarks - it truly was no wonder that the Chaplain hated Valdemar with his whole, elderly heart. But I was not the Chaplain, and so reconciled his words with the simple fact that he had a loose, Woltairian upbringing that left him uneducated in the things that Aquirians considered to be foundational. Still, the mockery felt barbed.

    ¡°You just tire too quickly.¡± I said defensively.

    ¡°Do I?¡±

    ¡°Yes, I saw you in the fields this morning. You looked exhausted.¡±

    The smile dropped from his face. ¡°Anyone would be a bit tired after such work.¡±

    ¡°Not like that, no, not so quickly.¡±

    ¡°I was not tired, anyway. You saw it wrong.¡± He said with a dismissive flick of his wrist. Liquid sloshed in the bottle.

    I shrugged and let the matter drop. It didn¡¯t really matter, did it?

    ¡°What do you have here?¡± I asked instead, gesturing to the bottle.

    ¡°Starka.¡± He said, and the smile was already back on his face. ¡°A little reward I got for my hard work today. I¡¯ve never tried it, of course, we don¡¯t have such a thing in Woltair - I thought you could join me, and show me how the locals handle their drink.¡±

    I hesitated. Alcohol was, at its very core, created to temporarily distort the body and mind. People indulged in it until their very blood ran thin with it, until even the smallest of wounds began to bleed with unnatural rapidity.

    Was it not ironic?

    The Chaplain called me corrupted. My blood - miasma. But what about his blood, on the nights when he drank himself into a deluded stupor, those nights when he held my shoulders and complained of the High Priest? And what of the men who, on Asmara¡¯s Feast, came to sacrifice their blood when their breath still reeked of vodka?

    How did the Goddess allow this?

    When I was younger and more impatient, I snuck a bottle of starka out of the cellar. I had a knife with me. I did it with the expectation that, somehow, the fiery liquid would wash the horrors out of my blood.

    Instead I ended up in the old healer woman¡¯s cottage, my wrists wrapped in yarrow. Still cursed. Incorrigible.

    I hadn¡¯t touched alcohol since then.

    Valdemar was watching me with his head slightly tilted, like a bird. He noticed my uncertainty. ¡°Won¡¯t you join me?¡± He asked again. ¡°It¡¯s not fun to drink alone.¡±

    What would he think if I told him of my inexperience? Something told me that he would be disappointed; I remembered the flash of coldness in his eyes when I tried to refuse the dance.

    ¡°I¡¯ll drink.¡± I heard myself say.

    He beamed at me - pretty, pretty smile, heartbreaking in its careless perfection. ¡°Good! Come sit. I don¡¯t think we need cups. I didn¡¯t bring any, and it would be too much effort to go and get some now. Go on, Gustav, sit down.¡±

    I obeyed, and crouched down on the grass beside him. He leaned back against the tree.

    ¡°Want to have some first?¡± Asked Valdemar.

    ¡°Uh, no, it¡¯s yours. You first.¡±

    He took a generous swig. Then, he gasped and burst into laughter. ¡°Ah, on Jomun¡¯s blood, it burns!¡±

    I grimaced. ¡°You were a bit too brave with that.¡±

    ¡°Hm. Pretty good though,¡± he said after a second of consideration. He pushed the bottle into my hands. ¡°Your turn.¡±

    ¡°Thanks,¡± I said, staring rather blankly at the starka. It smelled sweet.

    I closed my eyes and took a drink. Not enough to make me gasp, but enough for it to look like I was not afraid. The liquid burned as it went down my throat, and I coughed a little, and Valdemar laughed again. But the after-taste was of apples and herbs - and it didn¡¯t seem as horrible as I remembered it.

    Still, I thought, best not to overdo it. Just a couple of drinks and then I¡¯ll find an excuse to leave the rest to him.

    Two hours later, the bottle was more than half-empty and my head felt like a fluffy white cloud.

    Valdemar lay on his back, giggling at something again. ¡°Oh, this is not like absinthe at all! I hated it, Gustav, it tasted like medicine!¡±

    ¡°Oh, why¡¯d you drink it, then?¡±

    ¡°Why not! He loved it - so I drank it.¡±

    ¡°Who did?¡± I asked, and I sat up to get a better look at him. The world swayed around me in a not unpleasant way.

    ¡°Oh, Cal¡­hm.¡± Valdemar paused, and scrunched up his nose. ¡°No, it reminded me too much of my father¡¯s bedside. All those herbal medicines the doctor prescribed him. And then those that he didn¡¯t prescribe, but my mother bought from the bleeding old witch down the street. All the same. But this! This is nice!¡± and he held up the bottle triumphantly.

    ¡°I didn''t know your father was ill,¡± I said, and even as the words left my mouth I remembered the gossip.

    Poor little widow¡­

    ¡°Yes. Ill and¡­gone. You''re Aquirian. I know what you want to say. He is gone to the earth, to the Earthen Mother''s embrace. In Woltair they told us he dispersed into the wind and that his soul shall play on Lady Prentirose''s lyre. And in Feryon - what would they say? What would they say?¡±

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    ¡°I don''t know.¡±

    ¡°No, neither do I.¡± He sighed, and closed his eyes.

    ¡°And your mother..she''s sick too?¡±

    ¡°Sick with heartbreak, more like.¡± He said bitterly. ¡°She does nothing. She sleeps, and she cries, and she does nothing. Grandfather forces gruel into her mouth.¡±

    ¡°Oh. I''m sorry.¡±

    Valdemar opened his eyes and looked at me. ¡°Do you wonder what it would feel like to watch your other half die? It would kill me, too.¡±

    ¡°I hope you never have to experience that.¡±

    ¡°Someone always has to go first¡­¡± He trailed off again.

    I gazed out to the fields. ¡°My mother,¡± I started tentatively, ¡°she cries a lot too, at the graves of my siblings. I''ve never even met them.¡±

    ¡°Mhm. That''s what graves are for.¡±

    ¡°I don''t think anyone would cry on mine.¡± I admitted, and the still-sharp corner of my mind instantly rebuked me for it.

    Valdemar snorted. ¡°Well, when someone cries on your siblings¡¯ graves, some of their tears might still land on yours by accident.¡±

    ¡°Huh?¡± I looked at him with some puzzlement. Then I shook my head. ¡°No. I don''t want to be buried with the rest. I want to be buried with the oldest graves, up on the hill.¡±

    ¡°Hm. Why¡¯s that?¡±

    ¡°I want to be at peace. If no living person goes near me, then maybe my body won¡¯t be tempted to rise. Maybe I¡¯ll just sleep.¡±

    ¡°Do you think that¡¯s why they¡¯re up there?¡±

    ¡°I think they¡¯re up there because they¡¯re the oldest. The cemetery spreads out from them, like petals from a flower.¡±

    ¡°Or they¡¯re up there because they were thought to be vrykolakas.¡±

    ¡°...surely not.¡±

    ¡°When dawn comes, that place up there is the first to bask in it - isn¡¯t that so? The monsters must run early back to their homes, lest they be burnt to cinder.¡± He said, and took another swig of the starka. He was awfully articulate for his presumably drunken state.

    ¡°Don¡¯t say that. And anyway, they¡¯d be restrained from getting up in the first place.¡± Assuming the restraints are strong enough, I thought.

    ¡°Like how?¡±

    ¡°Decapitation, or burying them face down so they bite into the soil. Or both, or some other method¡­¡±

    ¡°Ah, so there¡¯s our solution.¡± Valdemar said. ¡°All we need to do to know whether they¡¯re just the oldest graves or vrykolakas¡¯ graves is to dig them right up.¡±

    I stared at him. ¡°Dig them up?¡±

    ¡°Yes! That¡¯s the only way to know for sure.¡±

    In a way that I hated to admit, he¡¯d read my heart. I had stood by those graves and lamented the lack of external signs of doom; no special words or symbols, no menacing aura or a lingering nightly creature to help discern where a monster might have slept beneath the earth.

    Yet to undig a grave? It was like tearing someone out of Asmara¡¯s embrace, stealing a mortal child from its true, eternal Mother. Would she rage? Would she cry? Would she even wish to get them back, after they have been taken from her once, and tainted by our hands?

    Would she - would she -

    ¡°There¡¯s no harm in it.¡± Valdemar said firmly. ¡°Nobody will know. The soil is so damp that we¡¯ll make quick work of it. By the time the sun rises, we¡¯ll have it covered back up again, and will be all the wiser for it.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s a horrible idea. It¡¯s heretical!¡±

    He just shrugged. ¡°I¡¯ll go get the shovels.¡±

    I watched him blankly as he started to make his way down toward the houses, a slight sway in his walk.

    I glanced down at the starka he left beside me. I picked it up, turned it idly in my hand - it wasn¡¯t completely empty, not yet - and, with a sigh, drank it down to the bottom.

    I got to my feet and ran after him.

    ¡ª

    We dug the grave mutely, the shk shk of our shovels unnaturally loud in the still night.

    I noticed how Valdemar struggled; how he swayed from his drunkenness, and how he cursed under his breath, hardly able to lift the soil.

    The whole situation had an edge of unreality to it. As my hands worked with the shovel, my thoughts wandered idly somewhere in the back alleys of my mind, not once stopping to take note of what we were doing.

    The birches rustled around us, the chill air bit my sweating skin, and an owl flew by somewhere overhead. The hole was slowly getting deeper.

    When the first bit of white cloth emerged from the soil, my hands stilled for just a moment, I felt an ode to the Goddess slip from my lips. But then Valdemar saw it too and exclaimed in delight, and I shut my mouth in silence.

    He dropped the shovel and started digging away with his hands, uncovering more and more of the burial shroud.

    The last of the earth cleared away, Valdemar found the edge of the once-white fabric and pulled it open.

    Moonlight fell over the bones. There was no odour to them. Only the earth, only the starka on my breath. A ring of metal gleamed silver, its ends embedded into the soil on either side of the skeleton¡¯s neck.

    Valdemar traced his finger along the metal¡¯s edge with the same softness as when he touched my jaw. ¡°What is this?¡± He asked.

    ¡°A sickle.¡± My voice was a choked whisper. ¡°If it - if the corpse rose, it would have sliced its throat open on it.¡±

    Another preventative measure. The skeleton we looked at now was buried like a vrykolakas, there was no doubt of that, and yet it had decayed to nothing but an arrangement of bones. It was just a body, falsely accused. Or it killed itself on the sickle.

    I leaned forward to get a better look - if there was blood on it¡­ but it was too dark, and Valdemar obscured my view, his hand still resting on the sickle.

    Vrykolakas or not, this man or woman had been buried like one. The other graves here were more than likely of the same sort. I¡¯d imagined them to be normal, forgotten people, the names on their gravestones eroded by the rain and the wind, their identities lost to time. I thought I¡¯d find peace amongst them. Just as forgotten. Just as eroded. Without reason I was pulled back to my doom even when I thought to escape it.

    Was this destiny, too? Or a meaningless coincidence? I had to know.

    ¡°Is there blood on¨C¡± I started, but Valdemar cut me off.

    ¡°Do you have superstitions around skeletons rising from the grave?¡±

    His sudden question caught me off-guard. ¡°No, we don¡¯t, why¨C¡±

    ¡°Good. Neither do I.¡±

    With a swift motion, he pulled out the sickle and threw it far into the trees. I gaped at him.

    ¡°Wonder if it¡¯ll rise now?¡± He grinned, and then rose to stand beside me.

    ¡°You can¡¯t just do that!¡±

    ¡°Why not? Nobody will miss a thing. And it¡¯s funny.¡± His grin widened. ¡°Look at it! Just bones! So much space¡­we¡¯d fit right in.¡± Valdemar suddenly gripped my arm and stepped back, pulling me with him.

    I stumbled forward and, realising his intentions, quickly circled my arm around his back and turned us around. He swayed and tripped backwards, sending us both tumbling. We rolled and I hissed as my back hit the grass.

    Valdemar simply tilted his head and asked guilelessly, ¡°What are you doing?¡±

    ¡°What are you doing?¡± I echoed, looking up at him with consternation. He¡¯d caged me in between his legs, his hand pressing down on my chest, and were it not for my consciousness of the exposed skeleton lying in its hole - was it watching? Was the Goddess watching? - were it not for the disorientating buzzing in my head, I very well might have lost my mind.

    Valdemar looked down at me, pondering, if he were indeed still capable of that in his present state. Then he laughed. ¡°Gustav, have you never laid in soil? Heard the tiny life surrounding you and stared at the stars and imagined your body melting and wondered - what will become of my mortal coil?¡±

    ¡°Asmara will take us into her embrace.¡± I said.

    He leaned over me, his long hair curtaining our faces as he muttered, ¡°You have never imagined it.¡± I thought I saw a twinkle of derision in his dark eyes.

    I grabbed Valdemar by the shoulders, and he put up no resistance when I flipped us over and pinned him down to the ground. He simply laughed again. I was getting tired of that laughter, that deeply pleasant sound I¡¯d always coveted - but not like this, not when it was a clear consequence of his drifting, imbibed mind.

    ¡°You need to stop,¡± I said. ¡°This is too much.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not.¡±

    ¡°It is! Let us cover the - the grave again and go home.¡±

    He stared quite blankly at me for a second, then shook his head. ¡°Don¡¯t be silly.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m being silly?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s only a grave! And you said¨C¡±

    ¡°Not only.¡± I cut him off, and murmured some vague admonishments at him, quite lacking the energy to actually explain the sacrilege we were committing - had committed.

    He listened to me quietly but when I finished speaking he, of course, laughed once more. I groaned in frustration.

    My heart quivered when he suddenly reached out and brushed his fingertips along my throat. Valdemar¡¯s eyes were locked to mine, and they were no longer mosaics as they were in the chapel, but fractured pieces of moonlight and bright reflections of his own mirth. Silver suited him just as much as gold, and it granted him an ethereal coldness that made me shiver as his hand drifted up to the back of my neck.

    His grip tightened and I released a shaky breath. ¡°Vald-¡±

    Before I could even react, Valdemar hooked his leg over my waist and hauled us right into the grave.

    I landed with a loud crack, old bones splintering beneath my weight. My heart skipped a sickening beat.¡°What the hell, Valdemar?!¡±

    The man in question was still laughing, laying half on top of me with his chest pressed against my shoulder and leg thrown over me. There were bits of soil in his hair, and I knew that we would get back home looking like we¡¯d¡­crawled out of a grave. Oh, literally. I could only sigh in frustration.

    ¡°Told you we¡¯d fit.¡± He murmured softly.

    ¡°..No. We need to get out - what are you even thinking?¡±

    ¡°You said you want to be buried here.¡±

    ¡°Not now!¡± I snapped at him, raising myself on my elbows. I winced as I felt another piece of bone crunch under me. ¡°Not literally right here.¡±

    Valdemar blinked owlishly at me. Then he put his hand on my chest and firmly pressed me down. ¡°What does it matter? Settle yourself. You move too much.¡± He said.

    Resigned, I let him lay me back in the grave. He shifted and put his head on my shoulder, and gazed up at me with those lovely, gold-lashed eyes. When I looked at him, he smiled. I turned my head away. An earthworm wiggled obliviously in the wall of soil. Something was poking into my back. A rib?

    This was not how I imagined it would happen - Valdemar, lying beside me. I dreamed of his arms around me at night, of his body pressed against me as we lay in my bed, or even on the grass by our familiar tree. I didn¡¯t think that it would happen in a cold and musty grave, the dry-apple scent of starka hanging off of us, my nightly prayers to Asmara hopelessly stuck in the back of my throat.

    But even though it was not as I had hoped, Valdemar was beside me, and I didn¡¯t mind the cold - he was enough to keep me warm. His breathing grew deeper as he sank into sleep, his soft locks tickling my cheek. Slowly, I wrapped an arm around his waist, and turned my gaze up to the night sky. I listened to his slow and steady heartbeat, letting it lull me until the stars blurred in my eyes and I felt myself on the edge of a dream.

    And for the first time in many years, I had forgotten to listen for the tell-tale beat of my own doomed heart.

 8. Fairy-tales

    My curse did not, unfortunately, include immunity to sickness.

    The morning after my graveyard rendezvous, I fell sick with fever and lay incapacitated for several days. This, of course, sent my family into a panic. What if I died? I could not die, not before them!

    Strangely, my father was pleased by this occurrence. Maybe he felt triumph in that his weird, cursed son decided to get drunk and spend a mysterious night away from home like any normal young man would have done.

    My brother, meanwhile, acknowledged me only once - and that was to chuck bread at me. ¡°Eat, you little beast.¡± He said.

    And now Asta sat on the edge of my straw bed, pecking away at that very same bread without offering any to me. ¡°Who were you with, Gustav?¡± she asked. ¡°Not drinking alone, surely? Though I wouldn¡¯t put it past you.¡±

    I frowned, but she just shrugged and continued to chitter away, ¡°I don¡¯t know, do you even have friends? Other than the Woltarian princeling, I mean.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s not a princeling.¡± I said.

    She scoffed. ¡°He might as well be one. He sticks out.¡± She popped another piece of bread into her mouth and hummed thoughtfully. ¡°So you were with him, then.¡±

    It was my turn to shrug. ¡°What if I was?¡±

    ¡°Yet he hasn¡¯t even come to check on you.¡±

    She was right. He hadn¡¯t come. I veiled the needling in my chest with common sense: he was punished for coming home late, he was wary of my family, he was sick too. That must¡¯ve been it. We slept in the same grave - he suffered the same fever.

    As though reading my thoughts, Asta said, ¡°He¡¯s not ill, by the way. Saw him prancing around the caravan market two days ago. He bought copper earrings.¡±

    When I remained quiet, she peered at me with triumphant eyes. ¡°Have you come up with a defence for him yet, brother dearest?¡±

    ¡°Shut up, Asta.¡±

    ¡°You know, it¡¯d be better if you didn¡¯t get involved with him like that¨C¡±

    ¡°Like what?¡± I snapped, my tone too harsh, too revealing. I sank back in my bed.

    She gave a little shake of her head. ¡°He doesn¡¯t even pray at the chapel.¡±

    ¡°Because the Chaplain doesn¡¯t like him.¡±

    ¡°And the Chaplain doesn¡¯t like him because¡­¡±

    ¡°Because he asks questions. He¡¯s unfamiliar with our worship. But it¡¯s not malicious.¡± I said with a confidence I didn¡¯t really feel.

    But worship was a matter of time; he was not raised like us, reared as he was in fickle Woltair. In a few more months, or a year, or two, he would come to look upon Asmara with the reverence due. Maybe he would even carve us a new sculpture of her, to replace that strange one we had now.

    Asta hummed in thought. ¡°I guess the old man can be a bit petty.¡±

    ¡°A bit?¡±

    She smiled. ¡°Alright. Very petty. But tell your princeling that he should at least try to get along. By the way,¡± she said, ¡°the other day another foreigner arrived.¡±

    ¡°Really?¡±

    ¡°Weird, right? Our random little village getting the attention of two whole foreigners within a few months of each other?¡±

    ¡°From Woltair too?¡± I asked.

    ¡°No, Feryon. The girl¡¯s a Lohen!¡±

    My eyes went wide. ¡°Really? What¡¯s she doing here?¡±

    ¡°Beata said she¡¯s here to do research of some sort. She offered her a place to stay.¡±

    ¡°Research what?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t know. Only Asmara knows what a Feryonner expects to find here, of all places.¡±

    Feryon - the proud and mighty Kingdom bordering Woltair. A Kingdom that devoted itself to brain and brawn, but never to the Gods. The Kingdom where, in its south, lay a volcano said to have been accidentally created by the Sun Father Lohendrunn himself, and where the first Lohens were born.

    I¡¯d never seen a Lohen, for these horned humanoids hailed from the heathen depths of Feryon, and most of them had little reason to venture into Aquir. But maybe that was for the best.

    After all, even I knew of the controversial event that happened two years ago, when the Holy Palace of Avaren was tarnished by a group of dissatisfied worshipers. Armed with knives and torches, they targeted the few Lohen novice priests residing within, for no other reason than that they were what they were. Almost a quarter of the Palace burned down, and two of the seven resident Lohen were killed. The only reason the other five survived is that the Lohens are, in fact, naturally resistant to flame.

    That very same evening, High Priest Caine sentenced the overzealous worshippers to death.

    But the High Priest is an unusual man in his blindness to the birth land and species of his priests. There are many more Aquirians who would have been happy to see the remaining five Lohens bleed.

    And so, though this visiting scholar had found shelter in the kindly arms of Beata, I knew that, at best, most of the village would meet her with stares and even suspicion. I just couldn¡¯t understand why she would choose this for herself.

    ©¤©¤©¤  ? ? ¡ã ? ? ? ¡ã ? ?  ©¤©¤©¤

    Two more days passed before I recovered sufficiently enough to venture outside and see this mysterious Feryoenner for myself.

    It was a gloomy afternoon. The skies were a dull grey, the rain spitting down non-stop since morning, and my boots squelched as I quickly walked the muddied paths.

    The fields were empty, the villagers taking this chance to do indoor work, fix equipment, tend the animals, and spend precious time with their families. Or, as was the case for certain men, to trail down to the only tavern there was, where the candlelight cast an inviting warmth and promised protection from the forlorn cold and thankless earth.

    I wondered if the Lohen would be there too, eating or just sheltering from the rain. Either there or at Beata¡¯s. But, as I had no excuse to intrude on the latter - and nor did I wish to seem so very curious - I chose to visit the tavern.

    I barely resisted wrinkling my nose when I stepped through the door, and was instantly assaulted by the pungent reek of alcohol that had seeped down into the very core of the tavern¡¯s wooden floors.

    The place was small, so it only took one quick scan of the sticky, wooden tables crowded with farmers for me to determine that the Feryonner was not there. If she were, her horns would stick out.

    But there, his back against the wall, was Valdemar. He sat alone, idly picking at his nails. The single candle on the table in front of him flickered restlessly - he looked up as I approached, and it was as though he wore an ever-changing mask of shadows over his face. But his smile was bright as always.

    ¡°Gustav, there you are. Feeling better?¡± He asked, his voice tender.

    ¡°I¡¯m alright.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s good. I had a fever as well, and only got out of bed yesterday. Don¡¯t just stand there - come, sit.¡±

    I sat down on a wobbly wooden chair opposite him. ¡°Really? You too?¡±

    ¡°Is that so surprising? Anyone would fall ill after spending the night as we did.¡± Said Valdemar.

    He flicked his hair back, and I expected to glimpse earrings dangling from his ears, the metal catching in candlelight. But he was not wearing any. I almost sighed with relief - had Asta only been lying to tease me?

    ¡°It was your horrible idea.¡± I said.

    Valdemar just smirked, and lifted an eyebrow. ¡°Horrible? I rather enjoyed it.¡± A pause, as he pulled out a small, half-formed piece of wood from one pocket, his carving knife from another, and started working away at it, the shape still too blocky for me to tell what it would become.

    I watched him quietly for a few seconds until, without looking at me, he added, ¡°I¡¯d do it again.¡±

    I blinked, not quite sure how to even begin deciphering that statement. I was elated that he¡¯d want to spend more nights with me, but¡­ I hoped that didn¡¯t mean he hoped to pull me into another session of heresy. Deciding to ignore his words for the time being, I said instead, ¡°My sister told me that a Lohen is staying with Beata.¡±

    ¡°Oh, yes.¡±

    ¡°Have you seen her?¡±

    His eyes flicked to me for a second, before going back to the wood. ¡°I have.¡±

    ¡°Do you know what she¡¯s here for?¡± I pushed, somewhat confused and irritated by such curt replies from him. There was something off with him as he continued carving the wood, a surface-level focus that transcended into a spaciness at odds with all I knew of him thus far.

    ¡°The woods, apparently.¡± He said after a beat.

    ¡°Valdemar. Are you alright? You seem¡­¡±

    His head snapped up. He put down the carving and his knife, instead propping his chin in his hands, his gaze sharpening in that familiar, piercing way. ¡°Seem like what?¡±

    Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    ¡°No - nevermind.¡±

    Valdemar shrugged. ¡°Hm, well. I haven¡¯t talked to this girl, if that¡¯s what you are after. She spends her days in the woods.¡±

    ¡°I see¡­it¡¯s raining today, though. Surely she can¡¯t be out there even now?¡±

    ¡°And why not? I¡¯d be disappointed if a little rain was enough to quench a scholar¡¯s thirst for knowledge.¡± He said.

    The rain still beat against the window panes, violently enough to be heard even over the rowdy cheers of drunken tavern dwellers. I watched it and thought of the girl; imagined her out there in the woods, alone. Day in, day out, in the sun and in the rain. An outsider who lived by her own rhythm, heedless of those who thought her strange. Something I couldn¡¯t identify welled in my chest.

    The chair scraped as Valdemar stood up. ¡°Can I get you a drink?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± I muttered, still gazing out the window. He stood still, and I could sense his eyes on me. I drew a breath. ¡°No, I mean, sure. Something warm would be nice.¡±

    When the last drop of rain rippled down the glass, I would go to the chapel and pray.

    ©¤©¤©¤  ? ? ¡ã ? ? ? ¡ã ? ?  ©¤©¤©¤

    It lasted until evening.

    I left Valdemar in the tavern. I¡¯d expected him to try and keep me longer, or even to trail after me, so I was disappointed when he only smiled and wished me a good night. His carving had, again, taken the shape of a cat. I wondered whether it was his cat from Woltair, but he still looked so oddly abstracted that I didn¡¯t ask.

    Mud squelched and pulled at my boots as I made my slow way to the chapel. Even from a distance it was clear that the candles were out - the stained glass windows were cast in gloom, offering no sense of divine shelter. The Chaplain always took care to keep the candles lit regardless of the weather, even going as far as to reprimand me when I once left the chapel without replacing one that had burned itself out.

    After all, a house of Asmara must always be a bringer of comfort to those who seek it.

    I had managed to stop myself from remarking that, candles or no, few would find comfort in a place that was so cold. The only warmth to be found should come from within; from our devoted hearts.

    But when I got closer, I saw that in the gloomy doorway stood two figures. The Chaplain and, to my surprise, the very woman I¡¯d been looking for.

    She was tall, taller than the Chaplain or myself. Perhaps she could have been described as willowy, for she certainly had a slender grace to her, if not for her rather wide hips. Her clothes were uninteresting - they made sense for one who spent a lot of her time in nature: simple pants, and calf-high boots, though the dark, high-collared blouse was buttoned to the top in a way that appeared excessively restrained to me. Nobody wore such things here. Our tunics were loose, embroidered, shaped only by a sash around the waist.

    Her tell-tale horns were unexpectedly small, just two small stubs jutting out of her forehead. But, equally surprising, was her tail - long, with a tufted end, which flicked casually to and fro. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

    There was something dreamy about her countenance, something that made her seem folded in on herself, as though with her calm, polite voice she spoke of one thing, yet her mind pondered something else completely. When she saw me approach, she smiled at me. It was professional, it was empty. It was a smile that did not care. She wasn¡¯t here, in the doorway of the chapel, not fully.

    The Chaplain motioned me forward. ¡°Ah, speak of him and he appears! Gustav, this is Marla.¡±

    I glanced between them. Yet another unexpected variable was that the Chaplain seemed at peace with her presence. He was not turning red, nor was his expression bitter the way it was whenever Valdemar ventured in his direction. No, the Chaplain did not seem to care that the woman who stood beside him, in the chapel entryway, was a foreigner and, worse yet, a Lohen.

    ¡°It is nice to meet you, Marla.¡± I said.

    ¡°Likewise.¡± She responded.

    The Chaplain clasped his hands together and beamed at me in the way that made it clear I had no choice in the matter as he said, ¡°She has some questions about our worship, Gustav, could you take some time out of your evening to discuss with her?¡±

    ¡°Sure.¡± I said too quickly, half out of surprise, and half out of pure curiosity.

    He gave us a satisfied nod, then turned and shuffled back into the unusually dark chapel.

    I looked at Marla. ¡°We can go to the tavern, if you want?¡±

    ¡°Oh, I shouldn¡¯t. They wouldn¡¯t like it.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡± I asked, imagining that she meant feeling unwelcome amongst the villagers there.

    ¡°Candles always extinguish themselves around me. They won¡¯t like drinking ale in the dark.¡± She said matter-of-factly.

    Right. That explained the chapel.

    ¡°We can go for a walk and talk.¡± She suggested.

    I wasn¡¯t particularly keen on trudging through the muddy paths for any longer than necessary, but it was not as though there was much of an alternative, if she couldn¡¯t go to the tavern. ¡°Alright.¡±

    As we walked, she started peppering me with questions all about Asmara, and Aquir¡¯s worship of her. She asked about our beliefs, our rites, and how our village¡¯s traditions differed from those of the capital. As for the latter, I knew little other than what the Chaplain told me of High Priest Caine¡¯s unorthodox approach, but I couldn¡¯t admit my lack of knowledge to her.

    And so, I told her as much as I could. I told her of Asmara¡¯s Feast, Jaunines at midsummer, the cleansing rites, and the lunar celebration in which women were the only participants, along with other smaller festivities that happened throughout the year.

    Speaking of these things invigorated me, and brought up a memory that had long been buried - a memory of when I was small and listening, wide-eyed, to the Chaplain preaching the stories of a world where the Gods still walked among us. Asmara, he said, used to come down and speak to us directly, just as now the priests spoke to us in her stead.

    Marla listened to me without interruption, and just watched me with dark, liquid eyes. In her presence, I felt as though I was the Chaplain, speaking his words, doing his work. And unlike during the blood sacrifice, I welcomed this feeling.

    Finally, I said, ¡°I didn¡¯t expect a Feryonner to be so interested in this.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°Well, I thought Feryon¡­is against the Gods.¡±

    She shook her head. ¡°We see it as a weakness. Those of my kind know that our ancestors¡¯ birth by the hands of Lohendrunn was a mere accident. It would be shameful of us to rely on a God who never intended to create us. However, that does not mean I am unable to show respect to your faith, or acknowledge the fact that every element of your existence is purposeful.¡±

    Purposeful. I didn¡¯t like the idea of my curse being purposeful. Though, I had a sense that she wasn¡¯t even aware of that element. I quickly decided not to tell her.

    ¡°Unlike Woltairians,¡± she continued, ¡°We do not visit other nations merely to insult them.¡±

    Something in her tone invited questioning, so I obliged, ¡°Why do you say that?¡±

    ¡°Before I journeyed to Aquir, I heard that the tensions at the border with the West Region were on the rise. Do you know why? Because Woltair¡¯s King came all the way to Orin, yet refused to speak to our King. He claimed that King Bjorn is too old, and thus he would only engage in politics with an heir - not a man halfway to his death.¡± She scoffed. ¡°Yes, we expect King Bjorn¡¯s death to be soon, and the preparations have already begun. But the crown still rests on his head, and the position of heir shall not be put up for contest before he is on the verge of passing.¡±

    ¡°You seem to know a lot about this.¡± I said. I didn¡¯t want to admit that I didn¡¯t even know the name of her King before she said it.

    ¡°And you don¡¯t? The squabbles of two or three men can ruin the peace of many.¡± Her eyes narrowed, and she looked at me coolly. ¡°Do you know anything at all about Baltimore?¡±

    I hesitated, then offered meekly, ¡°I know his first act as King was to legalise brothels.¡±

    Her lips curled up in faint amusement. ¡°Silly, who told you that, of all things? It¡¯s true, technically, though I myself wouldn¡¯t call that his first. His first act was just after his coronation, when he sent gifts to King Bjorn and High Priest Caine.¡± She paused expectantly.

    I shook my head and waited for her to continue.

    ¡°Your High Priest was holding court with his flock, when the gift was handed to him by a messenger. He opened the box, and reportedly his face went so pale that you¡¯d think he saw his own death in there. He shut the lid before anyone could see what was inside, made excuses, and left for his private chambers.¡±

    I hummed in acknowledgement, and she went on. ¡°As for King Bjorn, he was in too poor health to handle the box himself. One of the Six Generals, who happened to be nearby, was given to open it. General Muu, he was called. Again, we don¡¯t know what was in there but barely two weeks later, Muu got himself severely mangled on an emergency mission. And, as there is no use in a broken General, he was sent home and nobody¡¯s seen him since. Of course, I doubt Baltimore was acting in bad faith. The man is a fool, but doesn¡¯t seem malicious. Whatever it was - he must¡¯ve thought it a great gift.¡±

    ¡°That¡­all just sounds like gossip.¡± I said, but nevertheless her words had made me frightfully aware of just how small my world - and knowledge of it - had been until now. I didn¡¯t even know of any gossip surrounding the Kings, or anything that could be interpreted as politics. I didn¡¯t know about the High Priest and the box, much less about the actions of foreign rulers.

    I looked at Marla, but she was staring straight ahead, with a wistful look in her eyes that made it clear to me that she was curled up in her own thoughts.

    So, for the next while, we walked in silence. Until I cleared my throat and asked, ¡°So¡­what are you doing so far from Feryon?¡±

    ¡°Research.¡± She said simply.

    ¡°Yes, I¡¯ve heard that you¡¯re a scholar.¡±

    Marla smiled and shook her head. ¡°Oh, no, I am a healer by profession. And before you ask - no, I am not here for anything to do with healing.¡±

    ¡°Then what research is it?¡± I asked. We had stopped on a path by the edge of the woods, linden trees rustling behind us. They were sacred trees, particularly to our women, who believed their leaves to hold promise of good fortune and fertility when eaten.

    A single leaf fluttered down from a branch and landed on the ground between us. Her eyes followed it as though it were the most interesting thing in the world.

    Then, she lifted her gaze to me, and said, ¡°I am here to find the Erlkonig.¡±

    I did not know what I expected from her, but it wasn¡¯t this.

    He is a monster of children¡¯s stories, and I hadn¡¯t spared him a single thought for a decade. It is said that he lives in a forest - and of course, every village with small children will claim it is their forest - and steals away those who wander in too deep. He has antlers larger than any deer, and eyes that gleam either gold or green depending on who you ask, and long claws that tear flesh with killing grace.

    I couldn¡¯t help but smirk at her. ¡°You¡¯re here for¡­a fairy tale?¡±

    ¡°A fairy tale?¡± She shook her head, and her eyes shrouded again in that distant way. ¡°He may be a fae exiled from his lands. Or a spirit. Or maybe a beast, only taking on the guise of a man¡­I¡¯ve heard that he steals people. Whatever for? How do we come to know of his existence, if he whisks his victims away, never to be seen again?¡±

    ¡°He probably doesn¡¯t exist¨C¡± I said, wanting her to know that the one she sought for was a scary story, a false myth, and that whatever she heard of him in Feryon must¡¯ve been distorted, for her to believe she could find him here.

    Marla bent to pick up the linden leaf off the ground. She twirled it between her fingers. Her long nails were more akin to claws.

    ¡°Well,¡± she said, ¡°then I¡¯ll leave this Kingdom very educated about all the types of trees and fungi to be found in a forest. No, even his inexistence is important to ascertain. Such things - myths, legends, tales so twisted by time we don¡¯t know where they end or where they begin¡­but everything does have a beginning and an end. A rational one, one way or another. Regardless, I¡¯ll know a truth to bring home, a truth that will enhance our understanding of the world, even if only by a tiny amount.¡±

    I let out a huff. ¡°You seem so certain.¡±

    Her eyes flicked to me again. ¡°And you¡¯re not? Don¡¯t your instincts tell you what is nature and what is myth?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°I think they do. Maybe you don¡¯t want to put your faith in something so primal and raw, son of Asmara, but as I¡¯ve said before - every piece of your existence was made with purpose. And that includes the roiling instinct in your gut that tells you which scary stories are true.¡± She smiled, a tip of a fang peeking through her parted lips. ¡°And mine tells me that the answers to the Erlkonig are right. Over. There.¡±

    I looked past her and into the woods. The trees grew thick, the ground a battlefield of moss and leaves and dark, coiling roots. Those things meant nothing to me. But they meant much to her and, apparently, to the monster she sought to find within.

    That night I lay in my bed, my single heart thumping a slow beat, and I thought of kings and earrings and carving knives and fallen leaves and the truths that a Lohen claimed I already knew.